


Lionheart

by oneinspats



Series: Speaking Foreign Languages [2]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Oh gods what am I doing with my life?, Really. What am I doing?, angry philosophical/political sex?, philosophical questions about the law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:09:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Quirmian inspector arrives in Ankh-Morpork to chase after a con-man who skipped out of Quirm and whose trail has suddenly been picked up again.<br/>Vimes doesn't like people infringing on his jurisdiction and questioning his abilities as a copper. And stop lecturing my men! That's my job!<br/>Meanwhile there appears to be an arrival of an organized criminal network that isn't a guild. In fact it's stepping on a lot of guild's toes. His lordship isn't pleased and what are you going to do about it, commander? </p><p>established Vimes/Vetinari. </p><p>Tech. takes place after that plague one but like Pratchett, it's not necessary to read them in order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Twilight

**Author's Note:**

> The name for Credan was chosen for two reasons, both rather phonetic than semantic. The first is that the name sounds like Cretan which is appropriate. The second is that it also sounds a little like creed, which also fits nice. It’s also, I think, a rather Dickins-esque sort of name, something Pratchett is clearly fond of (Reacher Gilt, the Laviches etc).
> 
> For those who are just joining us: Sybil sadly passed away ooh...five years ago now? Of some mysterious disease no one could cure and Vimes was very very very very very sad. That poor sod.

Credan watched smoke curl around and then above the city. He sucked in a quick breath and eased himself onto slick roof tiles. Below him carriages rattled by over worn cobbles and Dibbler attempted to hawk his latest wares. Somewhere, on of the many foggy, smoke filled, darkened streets, a bell could be heard banging. Shortly followed was a call of ‘All’s well’. This was followed by, in a different voice, ‘All’s most likely well and you can’t sue the Watch Mr Slant for supplying supposed misinformation. Mister Vimes has looked into it and says he’s keen to take your money grubbing arse to court if you do even so much as think about it. And it’s not libel if it’s true – sorry.’

Rummaging through his pack Credan withdrew a notebook and jotted a few lines down. Shifting his weight he leaned against a convenient chimney and watched as the night unfolded.

 

 

There was rain when Vimes stepped out of the watch house. The weather had come upon the city suddenly and he was less than pleased about it. Next to him Colon fumbled with his cloak, trying to get his hood up and tuck his collar in closer.

‘Doesn’t get easier with age, does it?’ The sergeant muttered. They set off into the night with shoes squelching.

‘Well, at least it’s not freezing rain like we had a few weeks ago. Springs coming surely.’

The rain was clearing up the fog only to replace cloudy inability to see with a rainy inability to see.

'Off home?’ Colon asked amiably. He was digging in his pockets and eventually pulled out a flask.

Vimes grunted and gave a nod. ‘Catch a few hours before dawn.’

‘Tough case, sir?’

‘Bloody impossible, more the like.’

Colon waited. Vimes grumbled under his breath as he dropped a sagging cigar.

‘We can’t arrest the blighter.’ He said it as they scooted under a shop overhang. Colon wordlessly handed over a dry matchbox. ‘And my cigars haven’t been the same since.’

‘Nofings been the same since.’

A slow nod. Sometimes, when the days been slow and he expects to see old watchmen in the mess hall, Vimes could still hear the dull bells and even duller calls for the dead. And, sometimes, when a new shining face was wearing Visit’s armour, or any of the other men’s armour, it’d be worse for a moment. But then he’d dismiss it and move on. Just as they all had when it had ended and he didn’t like to think that it had been an entire year. A year and a bit, really.  
  
‘His lordship,’ growled angrily. Colon grinned. ‘Has taken the time to point out that embezzlement is still theft and our suspect is a member of the guild and fully registered so no, we can’t arrest her.’

The match was dropped and sizzled out on cobbles.

‘Bloody obnoxious. She ruined an entire family but oh no, no, guild member so she’s safe from the law.’ The commander heaved a sigh. ‘But never mind that, we’ll get her on something else.’

Colon brightened up, ‘Yes, sir. No doubt about it. Once a criminal, always a criminal, eh?’

 

There was light under the patrician’s door and Vimes knew he shouldn’t have expected anything else. Even if it was four in the morning and tomorrow was technically the weekend. He lingered in the hall and thought that maybe he should go home-home. It was part of their Arrangement, after all. No work discussions between the hours of midnight and six in the morning, or during dinner or breakfast if young Sam was present. And all of that barring emergencies. Stealing himself Vimes knocked and entered when he heard a soft ‘come’.

Vetinari was tucked in at his desk with candles half burned and dribbling wax over worn, scratched wood. A quick movement and Vimes watched as a pair of reading glasses were discreetly tucked away.

‘How was work?’ The patrician asked as he neatened a few papers. Vimes knew he was being watched as he unhooked his coat and hung it up by the door. It dripped dirty city rain water on the floor but he felt that the room was always too neat and unlived in and so could use a little bit of mess now and then.

‘You already know.’ A glance up found the other man’s gaze, unbroken and unreadable, fully on him.

‘True.’ There was a subtle shift and the firm line that was Vetinari’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. ‘How are you, then?’

‘Pretty sure you already know that, too.’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Why do we do this every godsdamn time?’

Ah, Vimes hid a smirk. Made you smile. Well, almost smile.

‘Tradition, I had thought. I read that it’s apparently normal for people to create them. Or was that rituals? Nevertheless.’

Vimes snorted as he crossed the room, he dipped in for a kiss and murmured, Can’t argue with that. Even if you’re being a bloody bastard about it.

‘Tch. It keeps things interesting.’ Vetinari allowed himself to be pulled up out of the chair. ‘You’re wet.’

‘Soon to be fixed.’

‘You’re impossible.’

‘Thank you.’ Another kiss and Vetinari managed to look mildly annoyed though it didn’t last long. ‘Hardly one to speak, yourself.’

 

 

When Vetinari had first met young Sam it was in the kitchen early one morning and there had been a moment of silence followed by the boy asking critically, ‘Are you a licensed thief your lordship highness sir?’ The boy had been emboldened and asked further, ‘cause I wanna see some papers or I’m gonna call my dad in and he’ll arrest you and then the guild will do something impolite to you and put you on their weather vein.’

The patrician had stared and then slowly buttered a piece of toast. He buttered a second one before answering, carefully, ‘I am not a thief. Well, not like that. Your father would disagree; ask him about eminent domain. Would you care for a slice of toast?’

Young Sam had eyed the piece before saying, All right, but only if I get honey on it. And Vetinari had replied, Does your father let you have honey on it?

‘No.’

'Fine.’ They had retrieved the honey and made young Sam two slices before Vimes had walked in half awake and muttered that he should never have let them meet ever and Sam, you’re supposed to only have half a slice with honey and what would your mother say; and Vetinari you’re a bad influence, get out of my kitchen.

 

Now, a good few months later, Vetinari would occasionally sneak young Sam treats and tell the boy that he knew who to keep on his side.

‘It’s about making the right allies,’ he explained over breakfast. ‘And you are someone to have on my side.’

‘’Gainst who?’

‘Oh you know…’ he hummed and filled in an answer to the crossword.

‘That’s not an answer.’

The patrician looked up and stared at the boy until young Sam stuck his tongue out and went back to his homework muttering, s’true, s’not an answer.

Later, when the patrician had disappeared into early morning fog, young Sam asked his father, Why does Mr Patrician want allies?

‘Gods, what was he bothering you with at breakfast? And it that a chocolate bar?’

‘No-o. And he was just sayin’ that I would be a good ally and never explained.’ Young Sam pulled a face. ‘He just did that dumb staring thing.’

Vimes laughed and shook his head and told young Sam, Oh gods, don’t mind him. And tell him his staring is dumb next time he does it. Gods know someone needs to let him know.

‘I thought everyone was scared of it.’

‘The office helps. Now finish your breakfast.’

  

The city was fully alive when Vimes stepped out after making sure young Sam got off to school on time. Congestion was almost back to pre-plague levels and Nobby and Colon were thrilled to have their traffic control positions up to par. Regardless of the disasters, Vimes mused, people still seemed to have this unnecessary desire to live in Ankh-Morpork.

Sidestepping merchants and carters, blacksmiths and servants, wives and children the commander made a slow, meandering journey to the watch house. The weather was hazy, with low hanging clouds but mercifully no rain. The _Times_ was running on full staff again, though the roll of head journalist and copy-editor had yet to be replaced. No one mentioned it much. Really. The one time it had been mentioned the person had ended up with Qurimian New typeface on their forehead. Vimes had shrugged and said he could hardly blame de Worde, as much as he didn’t like the man personally. Loss was loss. And it’s a private thing. A quiet thing. A stiff-upper-lip thing. Best not to speak of it. Best not to remind people of it because gods above know that we don’t need help with the remembering.

Along the way he lingered at a coffee shop and finished reading the morning edition while having a smoke. There was the old news of an escaped convict from Quirm who went by the name Richard Thaine. This was followed by a request for oddly shaped vegetables, a public announcement that could Mr Decker please stop serenading Ms Anne Gabilan as she is quite taken and not interested in the likes of him, thank you. She would much prefer a man whose sole accomplishments in life consisted of a little more than just highly refined latte art. A snort and Vimes turned the page. CMOT Dibbler was selling automatic trousers which buttoned themselves for you. What more could you want? A new treacle and sweets shop was opening just off the Cham. Discounts for students and palace employees. The commander scowled and made a note on the side of the paper. At the bottom was an article about the Great Undertaking and that the construction was to resume in a month’s time.

Finding the puzzle section of the paper Vimes finished the number games before staring at the crossword for a full two minutes. At the end of the two minutes he wrote, _Fuck This,_ into three across “Famous Literature Genre of Urt in the Century of the Embellished Dolphin”.  With a sigh he folded the paper back up and stubbed out his cigar. He made a mental note to try a new shop.

 

Later, at tea time, Captain Angua said that there was news on the Susie Sumners embezzlement case.

‘We may have something we can nick her on.’ She was trying to not smirk. As was Carrot. Vimes felt inordinately proud of both of them but quickly tamped it down. Angua continued, ‘Nobby says he recognised her from about two years ago he had the misfortune of visiting a relative in the Tanty.’

‘Oh?’ the commander found his notebook buried under a stack of unread reports. ‘What was she in for?’

‘Murder. But we can’t get her on that, I looked over the file and we barely had enough at the time to warrant an arrest. There was also a note from his lordship in there stating as much.’

‘You could feel his eyebrows raising when you read it,’ Carrot added helpfully.

Vimes muttered, ‘Bloody hate that man.’

‘But, she did break out of jail and of that we have ample proof.’ She placed the file down for Vimes to inspect. And, indeed, there was proof. There was a lot of proof. More proof than was necessary. He frowned and sifted through it again.

At last he sat back and shook his head, ‘I don’t like it. There’s too much evidence. I don’t trust too much evidence. But good job, anyway, very diligent.’

‘What should we do, then?’

Vimes handed the file back, ‘go through it with a comb and a magnifying glass. There is real evidence here, of that I am certain. Find it and then we’ll be on better ground.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s something about this entire case that’s not adding up. There’s something wrong with it.’

‘Sir?’

‘I can’t put my finger on it yet. Where does Lipwig fit in? We know the suspect had a meeting with him shortly before being caught. In fact, she had been having meetings with him on a monthly basis for the past four months. And Lipwig is untouchable as a man who’s died already. His lordship won’t have it. But there’s something else and once I figure it out I think everything will fall a little better into place.' A sigh. 'Thank you captains.’

They saluted and left.

Vimes waited a moment and pulled the newspaper back open. He turned to the crossword again. He carefully, with smudged pencil, wrote _Bugger,_ into thirty two down, “Genuan Cardsharps Evoke This Emotion”.

 

At six Vimes arrived home and found young Sam doing homework in the study. He was still in his school uniform which had grass stains on the needs and a smudge of dirt down the front. Sam sat at the desk which was too large for him and he was more kneeling than sitting in the chair as he filled in the answer sheet.

'Dad, why do I have to take Klatchian?’

‘Because you don’t have a choice.’ He ruffled Sam’s hair and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. ‘But you’ll thank your teachers in the long run, I’m sure.’  

‘Why?’ The boy didn’t look convinced and Vimes couldn’t blame him.

‘Well, you’ll be able to read what’s on the menu at Ali’s. And you’ll know that Vindaloo just means “stupidly hot curry we make for Morporkians who are trying to be manly”.’

‘Mr Patrician says I can insult people and they won’t know it.’

‘Mr Patrician needs to stop giving you bad advice.’

Sam grinned and Vimes pretended to glare before shaking his head and muttering, What am I going to do with you?

‘Can we read the next chapter in ‘The Very Expected Journey’ when I’m done?’

‘If you’d like.’

The boy nodded eagerly before ducking his head and returning to his homework.

 

At ten Vimes was sitting in front of the fire in the study and reading of the Sybil’s father’s old tomes. He had often wondered how he and his in-law would have gotten on. The more he read of the man’s collection the more he thought, Probably not very well.

The grey of the day had eased up and the night was clear and gently warming as spring moved on and summer slowly, slowly approached. He turned a page and read on. The book was a philosophical work discussing the nature of man (evil, avaricious) and man’s role on the disc (as rulers) and how this role impacts the other species (subjugation since man is superior). The arguments were dense, circular, and repetitive and after half an hour the commander set it aside as a lost cause. Picking up a stack of reports he began shifting through them, putting Carrot’s and Angua’s aside to read later. He picked up one on traffic control by Colon and spent twenty minutes deciphering creative spelling and even more creative punctuation.

At eleven a servant knocked and said there was someone at the door. More to the point, a captain Carrot was at the door. Vimes hauled himself to his feet and pulled his coat and boots on.  He wrote a quick note for young Sam which threatened that if the boy was late for school again this week there’d be no desert for an undetermined amount of time (it’d have been what? The third time? Fourth time? Sometimes Vimes worried that Sam took a little _too_ much after him).

‘What is it, captain?’ He asked once they were out on the streets.

‘Sussie Sumners has been arrested,’ the captain said with some uncertainty.

Vimes’ eyebrows raised, Oh? I thought we didn’t have enough on her. Who brought her in?

‘I think you had just better come to the watch house.’ Carrot waited for a moment then added. ‘There might be a jurisdiction issue at hand. And the last time we had that Igor threatened to sew extra arms onto the offending party.’

‘The offending party was Dr Friebottom so I can’t blame our medical officer. _And_ Littlebottom stopped him.’       

'Reluctantly.’

The commander waved it off, ‘that was a year ago, captain. Water under… sludge under the bridge. Who brought her in?’

Carrot shook his head, It’ll just be easier if you see for yourself.

 

Sussie Sumners was sitting in a chair hand cuffed and looked pissed. Pissed, Vimes corrected, would be an understatement. A few constables were lingering and trying to not be too obvious about their staring. Angua was standing by the wall with a quiet, closed expression. Carrot motioned to a man standing by Ms Sumners.

‘This is Mr Credan –‘

‘Inspector Credan.’

‘Inspector Credan,’ Carrot’s face was so carefully neutral. So carefully blank. ‘Commander Vimes of the city watch.’

Vimes moved forward and offered his hand to the other man. The shake was quick and to the point and Gods above was the room was silent. Credan was heavily built, with a thick neck, grey hair, indecipherable eyes, a cold, hard face. He was shorter than the commander but none would think it when looking at them.

‘From the Quirmian constabulary. I’m here on police business,’ he said as he pulled out papers from an interior coat pocket. Vimes looked them over before handing them back.

‘Pleasure to meet you, I’m sure. Are you here for Ms Sumners?’

Credan tilted his head to the side and had a dour expression that, for the man, might have been considered mirth.

‘Her? Oh, hardly.’ A derisive laugh which was cut short and sharp. ‘I recognised her from the piece in yesterday’s paper. Embezzlement, a nasty crime. I’m surprised you hadn’t brought her in before.’

Sussie Sumners turned her glare from the commander to the inspector and back.

Vimes glanced at the small crowd around them before motioning to his office.

‘Shall we discuss this in my office?’

‘If you wish.’

Once the door was closed and the inspector seated opposite Vimes the commander gave a small sigh.

‘You are new here so I should explain something for you then you can tell me what, exactly, you are doing in my city.’ In my jurisdiction, he didn’t add. ‘The guilds here have a lot of power and because of this they are given a sort of carte blanche, unless they do something to upset the city or threaten it. In return for this freedom the guilds self monitor and are also granted some immunity from the law. Ms Sumners is a member of the Thieves guild and as such she is allowed to commit theft so long as it follows certain protocol and is licenced. Just as the assassins are allowed to commit, what I would call murder but Downey calls inhumation, so long as it follows the rules of the guild.

We already arrested Ms Sumners a week ago for this embezzlement business and were promptly told to let her go and to apologise to the thieves guild.’ He made a face. ‘We’re trying to get her something else but at the moment there isn’t enough evidence.’

Credan’s face had remained passive through the brief explanation. When he moved it was always sharp, jerking, and forceful. The man gave the impression of a caged animal being held back by barely there constraints. ‘I understand there is evidence enough for her jail break two years ago.’

Vimes frowned and sat back. He stared at Credan who stared back.

‘Yes and no,’ he said at last. ‘There is evidence. Too much evidence.’

‘But she still committed the crime. Along with possible murder. And there is still evidence, even if you think there’s too much. I fail to see what is wrong with arresting her, her criminality is self evident.’

‘Yes,’ said slowly. ‘But it’s a little more complicated than that.’

‘Why?’

A brief knock and the office door peaked open as Carrot leaned in with a note.

‘Sir, the palace wants to see you.’

Vimes looked at Credan and gave a brittle smile, ‘That’s why.’

 

The Oblong Office was chilly when Vimes entered to find a huffed Mr Bogus leaving. He watched the thief stalk through the office doors before closing them with a definitive bang.

Vetinari was sitting primly behind his desk and looking over a paper. ‘Commander,’ he greeted without looking up. Vimes was tempted to reply, I’m up here, but refrained. ‘I hear Ms Sumners was arrested.’ He set the paper down and raised his gaze to Vimes’ face. ‘Again.’

The commander shifted his eyes to their usual spot on the wall.

‘To be fair, sir, we didn’t arrest her. Technically.’

‘Oh? Pray tell, how then _did_ she end up in Watch care? From what I understand handcuffing and taking someone to the watch house is very much the hallmark of being arrested. Or has the definition changed? Please enlighten me.’

Vimes hoped his face was betraying nothing. And Vetinari was angry, he knew. There was blatant sarcasm. Those heavy guns came out only when Vetinari was This Close to doing something You Will Regret Having Happened To You. ‘She was arrested, sir. But not by the Watch. An inspector Credan did the honours and I was just explaining the guild system to him when you summoned me.’

‘The officer from Quirm?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The patrician made a note on a different piece of paper. He pulled up letter, reopened it and pushed it across the desk towards Vimes. ‘It’s from the Quirmian constabulary. Apparently he has been sent to apprehend a criminal of theirs. A man who escaped six or seven years ago and has since disappeared in the general direction of Ankh-Morpork. Recent evidence has surfaced and this inspector Credan feels that their culprit is in our midst.’

Vimes read over the letter before handing it back with a stiff nod.

‘I want you to keep an eye on this inspector, if you’d be so kind. And please release Ms Sumners, commander.’

‘I’m sorry sir but I can’t.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I can’t, sir.’

Vetinari stared. He steepled his fingers and stared over them.

‘She was arrested for jail breaking two years ago, sir. And this was after she had been arrested for murder.’

‘On very thin evidence if I recall. Now, Sir Samuel, I trust your judgement in all things criminal related, and don’t give me that look, but this is not optional.’

‘She’s a criminal, sir.’

‘She’s a licensed thief, commander.’ Vetinari held up a thin hand as Vimes opened his mouth. ‘Vimes, this is not an arguable case. You will let her go. And you will apologise to the guild a second time.’

The commander bit his tongue and gave a slight nod. Something relaxed and the room seemed a little warmer.

‘Very good,’ the patrician hummed as he picked up another set of papers. ‘Remember our Quirmian friend. Don’t let me detain you.’

A fraction of a moment passed and something clicked in Vimes’ head. It might have come from how insistent Vetinari had been. It might have come from the spread of files (he knew they were arranged he had seen the man do it but never mentioned it) across the desk. And then he was thinking about the case. The something that the wrong, the money, the background of the family, the lack of a guild receipt, and Sumner’s visiting with Lipwig before it had happened. They had found bank ledgers in her room. Copies of them, rather. And Littlebottom had said that the columns didn’t match up. They had thought Sumners had done it. And- Ah. Oh.

‘She’s a clerk isn’t she?’ He asked it locking eyes with Vetinari as the other man glanced up.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s one of your dark clerks,’ he ignored the patrician’s amusement. ‘That’s why this case didn’t make sense. She wasn’t embezzling from the family, the family was embezzling from the bank.’ He paused then added, ‘she still broke out of jail.’

‘Did she?’

‘We have solid proof, sir.’

‘Do you?’

He frowned. Shook his head and muttered, Just as you say, _sir._ Vetinari smiled, that bright, brittle one; the one Vimes never trusted.

‘See, that wasn’t too hard. Good evening, commander. Don’t let me detain you.’ At the door Vetinari added, ‘and don’t forget the Quirmian inspector.’ 


	2. Things that make one late for work

Carrot was lecturing the new constables about the difference between organised crime and Organised crime when Vimes returned to the Watch in a very sour mood.

He nodded to Angua who detached herself from the wall. He murmured, ‘We have to let her go. Patrician’s orders.’

‘About that, sir.’

'She’s already gone, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Vimes glanced over to the dour inspector who was occasionally interrupting Carrot to correct him or to tell one of the lads to sit up and look sharp. ‘Does he know?’

Angua gave a mute shake of her head.

'Just as well. If he asks we let her off without sufficient evidence.’

‘Even though he knows we had enough.’

Vimes stares and lights a cigar, ‘Did we?’

She sort-of smirks and nods. Right, sir. Right. I’ll talk to Nobby about squirrelling away evidence folders. He has a terrible habit of that, you know.

Credan caught sight of him and strode across the room. The watch house was not small, Vimes knew. It could fit Detritus and multiple dwarfs and humans and convicts and the general public and a werewolf. Small was the last thing it was yet when Credan stood in the room everything seemed to dwindle. He filled a space without having to try. Vimes remembered Lipwig once telling him that the patrician’s presence was akin to a weighted ball on a piece of rubber. Everything sort of bent in towards him and around him; but in a gentle and sloping and subtle way. So suddenly everything and everyone was arranged around him without their knowing they had done it. But with Credan it was imposed presence. It was pressured, striking the point with a hammer, presence. It was the severe cut of the uniform, the firm towering hat, the face like a hatchet. Credan was not a small but persistent ball that forced the rubber to accommodate him, Credan was a large sledgehammer that was thrown at the sheet with a great and terrible force.

In short, Vimes found him too much like himself to actually like him.

‘Inspector,’ he gave a nod.

‘Smoking is allowed on the job?’ Credan eyed the cigar as if it had personally offended him.

‘And drinking. Though it’s not official.’

Credan wanted to reply but didn’t. Vimes nodded again.

‘They’re dead if I catch them, of course. But it’s Ankh-Morpork. We can’t exactly drink the water.’

‘I don’t approve of a lax rule in the force. It leads to lax morals and lax justice.’

Vimes shrugged, Good thing this isn’t your force. I don’t mind it if my men have a drink here and there just so long as they’re good coppers at the end of the day.

There was silence, Credan was waiting and Vimes was being stubborn. He knew the other officers were watching. Watching and waiting and seeing what trick the commander would pull.

'So, Inspector, do you need help finding your man? A Mr. Thaine I believe. I’m sure I can spare a few hours to help –‘

‘Thank you, commander, but no. I’m sure I’ll manage just fine. I simply need access to your archives and beyond that,’ a grim movement of his lips which Vimes thought might have been a smile. ‘I am fully capable.’ Credan gave a stiff bow and swept from the room. Vimes took a drag and blew out a perfect smoke ring as the door closed against blustery Ankh-Morpork streets.

 

The day pushed on and Vimes went along with it in a disturbingly quiet fashion. Carrot brought him a coffee at four and stepped into the office, making sure the door between them and the rest of the force was firmly closed.

‘Why is he really here, sir?’ Carrot asked as he stood at ease. Vimes pried the lid off and dumped in what Sybil had called “an obscene amount of sugar, Sam, you’re going to kill your teeth”. Vetinari had just stared and looked mildly perplexed.

‘He’s here to catch a man. That Thaine fellow, though,’ he eased the lid back on and took a sip. ‘I couldn’t tell you if anything else is up. His lordship was tight lipped about it as usual. Did tell me that we ought to keep an eye on him.’

‘Yes, sir. I figured, sir. Doesn’t do for him to be in our jurisdiction.’ Carrot was wearing a neutral face and Vimes still couldn’t read the man despite how long they’d known each other.

‘No, no it doesn’t.’

‘We’ve never stepped over our jurisdiction. Into Quirm, at least.’

‘Not into Quirm, no.’ He sipped his coffee and watched Carrot. ‘What are you asking, captain?’

‘Should we have someone following him? Angua maybe.’

‘Not a bad idea,’ a nod. ‘I like it. Can’t let his lordship’s clerks have all the fun now can we? While you’re here captain, how’s the smuggling case coming along?’

‘Liltovitch is on it with lance-constable Autumn.’

‘Have they made any progress?’

‘Well we’re pretty sure the screetch* is coming in from Genua. We inquired with the constabulary in the city and they confirm that there’s been an organised attempt to mass-produce it that they haven’t been able to shut down. Not enough men, apparently.’

‘And it sprung up a year ago?’

‘Yes, sir. Around the time the uh, the plague hit. They got it from a ship from Klatch and they lost three quarters of their officers.’

A soft murmur of _Gods_. Vimes fished for a file and opened it, skimming through the evidence.

‘So it’s being made in Genua and somehow imported into Ankh-Morpork. Do the guilds know anything?’

‘If they do they’re being very quiet about it.’

‘Course they are. Thoughts, captain?’

Carrot shrugged, ‘It’s not the trolls. Detritus cleared that up in the first week.’

‘Not even Chrysophase? He’s usually in on this sort of thing.’

‘No, sir. But Detritus is making inquiries. Liltovitch said that they were following up a lead through Sto Helit that may have trade connections with Genua. The thing is, sir, whoever is doing is professional.’

The commander nodded. ‘Oh yes, and there’s a lot of them, too. Organised, efficient. I don’t like it.’ He closed the file and set it atop of the ‘to follow up’ pile. ‘Anything else?’

‘Another body found in the Shades, sir. Dead of the screetch, though Igor and Littlebottom haven’t released the body yet.’

‘Fine, follow up with that.’

The captain nodded, Yes sir and gave a salute. Vimes sighed and sat back in his chair when the door had closed. It hadn’t been like this when he was a kid, he thought. What did we have? Snuff, sure, and Sto Helit weed which made your crave Abdul’s Happy Happy Morpork Pizza more than anything else. And then there was some of the harder stuff, Agatean Angel dust, Kaltchian Sand, river water. But it wasn’t like screetch and it wasn’t imported en masse in this fashion. There would one or two purveyors of varying quality, maybe a few growers for the weed and the Genuan shrooms, but nothing like this. Only last week Angua and Littlebottom hauled in ten crates of the stuff. It was sitting in one of the cells as the inspector had yet to figure out how to safely dispose of it. One thing was for certain, burning it was _not_ an option. _Distinctly_ not an option.

Sighing he pulled up another file on foreign cases. He flipped till he found the papers of Richard Thaine and began reading. Petty theft, cons, fraud, coin clipping – he frowned. Flipped through a few more of the indictments. There was something familiar about the man, about the crimes, the manner in which they were committed.

Shoving the file under his arm he exited towards the main hall and finding Sally he pulled the sergeant to the side.

‘I need you to do some research for me,’ he said handing her the file. ‘Don’t let the Quirmian inspector know.’

‘Richard Thaine?’ She glanced over it.

‘Yes, I was wondering if you could get your hands on a description of him. I have a few suspects in mind and I’d like it confirmed.’

‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir.’ She paused and glanced towards the door as it banged open and Colon dragged a protesting drunk behind him. ‘And if Credan should ask, sir?’

‘Paper pushing, sergeant. You’re clearing up some information on an old case.’

‘Yes, sir.’

\--

*Like Slab but worse. You might have thought that wasn’t possible. It is. Oh is it ever possible. Brains and bodies were not made to handle it. When told of its properties the only reaction the commander had been able to muster was ‘ _why?’._ This was followed with, ‘gods people are stupid’.

 

\--

Moist von Lipwig woke to the acrid smell of day old smoke. Next to him Adora slumbered on. Right, he remembered. Another attack on the Society for the Betterment of Pixies and Gollums in the Workforce. This had resulted in Adora stalking through the streets of the city breathing fire and Lipwig doing his best to calm her down while managing a crises at the bank and Lord Vetinari raising eyebrows and his and Adora’s daughter wailing in her crib.

Then Adora had smoked a pack of cigarettes furiously.

Then they had had sex. Furiously.

This was getting to be too much, he decided as he sat up and rubbed his head. A moment later and he wrenched open a window and took a deep breath. The air outside wasn’t much better and a good deal cooler so he shut it and leaned his forehead against the pains.

‘You’re looking pensive,’ a sleep filled voiced mumbled from the bed.

‘Mmf.’

‘Come back to bed.’

‘Can’t. Have a meeting with the board’

‘Sod the board.’

‘Wish I could but it’s a much needed meeting. About the embezzlement problems and I’m worried about that new chap, Grubbins. I think he’s up to something.’

Adora gave a hum of agreement and there might have been a murmur of ‘I told you so’. He turned around and watched as she propped herself up and stared with dishevelled hair and smeared lipstick. He grinned. She glared and reached for her cigarette case.

‘It’s empty,’ he said. She grinned and pulled out a cigarette. ‘How do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

He motioned to the cigarette as she lit a match and smiled around the edge.

‘Magic,’ Adora purred and blew out smoke. ‘Sheer magic.’

 

Vimes was tying a string between different iconographs of various crime scenes and evidence. On one side of his office wall were a series of recent murders, all the same – a crossbow through the heart shot at short range. On the other side was evidence on the rise of screetch and the names of those who were peddling it. They were unimportant, Vimes knew. The people they were dragging in off street corners, they weren’t important. They were the bottom part of a chain that was much bigger than anything they had dealt with before. He turned his attention back to the murders. All seemingly unrelated except for the method of death. A doctor, a baker, two seamstresses, a lawyer, and three thieves.

Picking up a file he added a third section on the Sumners embezzlement case and stood back to look. There had to be a connection. A knock at the door distracted him and he called for the person to enter.

Credan walked in with hat in hand, his great coat damp from the morning rain. He looked over the wall, eyes lingering on the iconographs of the victims. Everyone’s eyes lingered on them, Vimes had long ago noticed. Ah the ever present love of morbidity.

‘Can I help you, inspector?’

‘I would like access to your files on past coin clipping crimes.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, I want to compare them to my own notes. I think there might be a connection I’ve missed.’ He peered closer at the information on the dead lawyer. ‘Grey Sky law? So he dealt with businesses.’

‘Yes. Clean so far as well can tell.’

‘And the doctor?’ He read over the card. Stared hard at the picture. ‘He’s from Genua.’

‘How do you know?’ Vimes leaned forward and stared at the image. He had memorized it, every detail, every aspect and shadow and shape.

Credan pointed to the man’s hand and a small mark by his right thumb. ‘It’s a tattoo, I recognize it. It’s a sort of tradition in some of the families there.’ He looked over at the baker and the seamstresses. He shook his head and moved to the thieves. ‘Specialising in lock picking and explosives?’

Vimes gave a curt nod. He felt as if he was missing something obvious, something the other officer had clearly caught onto. Credan tapped the last picture and nodded to himself.

‘That’s the key, commander.’

‘What is?’

‘The specialities of these people. What are they good at, that is why they were used then disposed of. Cleaning up loose ends.’

‘One of the seamstresses was young, just a girl. Sixteen, no more.’

Credan shrugged, ‘criminals are criminals. Age hardly matters.’

Vimes stared then glanced down at the Sumners case.

‘The family Ms Sumners apparently embezzled from has disappeared. We just had word in this morning.’ He pulled out a cigar and offered one to Credan who shook his head. ‘I doubt they were actually a family to begin with.’ A sigh. ‘But sorry, you were here for files. Yes, of course, speak to the officer at the desk and they’ll help you.’

Credan nodded and gave a curt thank you before leaving. Later, as Vimes sipped his third cup of coffee, he realised that Credan’s face had never changed. There had been no expression of any emotion, only intent. Clear, honest, intent. Vimes decided he didn’t like it and he might not trust it, either.

           

Credan had taken himself out on a solitary walk with Angua discreetly railing twenty minutes later when Lipwig arrived in a flurry of aggravated action. He was ushered into Vimes’ office and given a cup of tea strong enough to strip the enamel from your teeth.

‘How can I help you?’ Vimes asked with a too blank face and Lipwig rolled his eyes. _Coppers_.

‘Remember that Sumners affair last month?’ The tea was set down and trouser legs smoothed. ‘Where she robbed that family of their life savings?’

Vimes nodded and waited.

‘Well, as you know it wasn’t quite like that.’

‘No.’

Lipwig gave a sheepish smile and shrug. ‘His Lordship said it’d be best if things stayed quiet. That it wouldn’t do to disrupt the public and seeing as they generally don’t trust the bank as much as I’d like, that this scandal would send them back to socks under mattresses.’ He fidgeted and Vimes continued to stare. The young man tried a cheerful grin. ‘Well after she caught them and they jumped ship we thought it’d be over.’

‘Did you get everything back?’

‘Oh yes, just in time too. Apparently they were about to go to ground when Sumners caught them.’ He ran a distracted hand through his hair. Vimes could see dried formula on his coat sleeve and made a note to ask about the baby. ‘Well, it hasn’t stopped. You’re going to think me paranoid –‘

‘There isn’t a quality I value more in a person than well honed paranoia.’

Lipwig frowned but brushed it off with a shrug. ‘There’s an employee, joined six months ago, named Ned Grubbins. He seemed a good chap at the time and –‘

‘Now you’re not too sure?’ The commander pulled open his notebook and continued to wait with an expressionless face. ‘Go on.’

‘He was friends with Mr Shryer, the man who had been part of the scandal. Of course he’s acting scandalized now, saying he couldn’t believe of Shryer, how it is shocked to the core and so on. But there’s something about it that rings false. I’ve seen men do that before.’

‘What sort of men?’

‘Criminals, con-men. Look, commander, I recognize my own kind when I see them. Grubbins is up to something but I don’t know what, exactly. And his lordship seems disinterested. Said the man hadn’t done anything yet, so… Look, I just thought it might help.’

A nod and Vimes closed the notebook and set it aside. He took a sip of tea and let the silence continue. Just as coppers know coppers, con-men know con-men. He reasoned that perhaps Vetinari was onto something, using reformed criminals in public offices. They would be the first to see if something was up. I would think to add a few to the force, but then we’re in no short supply of petty criminals in uniform. We’re coppers after all.

‘His lordship is right there no crime at the moment, that we know of, and so no arrest can be made.’ A pause. Lipwig was waiting. ‘However, this information is useful. We’ll look into it. How is Ms Deerheart?’

Lipwig grinned, ‘oh well as you can expect.’         

‘We have a few of our more imposing constables on the beat that goes in front of her building. Hopefully there’ll be fewer rock throwing incidences.’   

‘Ah, thank you. Yes, she didn’t take it very well.’

‘I can imagine. And Rosie?’

The grin became soppier if possible. Vimes was suddenly struck with the thought, Oh gods, I used to look like this when Sam had been born. And in front of my officers, no less. And his lordship. And, well, _everyone._ ‘She’s doing very well. She can say Da-da and Ma-ma and Kibby, which we think means kitty.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

The required parental exchanged continued and Vimes gave the brief update on young Sam’s life. Lipwig said he was pleased to hear that the young man was doing well, and I’m sure he looks just like you. Lipwig’s face said that it was a terrifying thought but he barrelled on. And, well I best be going, technically on my lunch break and it ended fifteen minutes ago. Good day commander, and thank you.

When he was gone Vimes sat back and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Flash bastard, he thought. Still a flash bastard even if he’s in civil service black. Too godsdamn smooth for anything good to come of it. 


	3. A Lawful Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shmeh shmeh shmeh.

It was nine when Vimes returned to the watch house after putting young Sam to bed. Cheery Littlebottom was on desk duty and filing away complaints and she caught his eye with a wary look.

‘That Quirmian inspector’s been sniffing around,’ she said as he approached the desk. ‘Been going through Sally’s filing. Do you know he had the nerve to say that it could be done better.’

‘He’s not been here long,’ Vimes said by way of an explanation. No one ever expected the watch to complete its filing in an accurate or timely manner. And out of everyone the only two who seemed keen on it were Sally and that new-not-new constable Liltovitch.

‘What does he think we do with our spare time?’

‘Drink and whore probably.’ The commander fished out a cigar and lit it. ‘He wouldn’t be far off the mark.’

‘But we run well enough, sir,’ she huffed.

‘Sure. But I think he likes a tight operation. This half-hazard chaotic approach doesn’t suit him.’ A hum as he flipped through the mail. ‘Any news on the recent murders?’

‘No, sir. Though Angua, that is Captain Angua, said she might have a lead. She’s looking into it now. And Liltovitch is on patrol at the moment or I’d suggest asking him. Captain Carrot’s put him on the case. Says the boy has potential.’

A grunt and a nod. ‘Seems to at least have a head on his shoulders. More than I can say for the rest of us.’ He sighed and grabbed the evening edition sitting by the sign in book. ‘Right, who’s on desk after you?’

‘Detritus, sir, then Colon.’

‘Very good. I’m going to tackle some of my paperwork before his lordship’s left eye develops a permanent twitch at my inability to keep him updated on our goings on. He’s inordinately testy about these things.’

Littlebottom snorted and forced the file cabinet to close with a swift kick. ‘Probably a good idea, sir. There was a strongly worded message from his clerk about our papers being out of order. I could hear the man snapping pencils when I read it. Speaking of pencils, Lipwig nicked a few of ours so we need more at the desk.’

‘Fine, fine. Pick some up when you come back from break. Cheers, inspector.’

 

 

The office didn’t loose its permanent grey tinge regardless of how many lamps he lit. There were three candles on his desk and he was studiously ignoring the price of each one. There light was a fine, clear one; unlike the usual sallow yellow candles the watch normally used. With age, Vimes found, light become more essentially as the years plugged on. His eyesight was most definitely _not_ getting better.

He put one report in the finished pile on the floor and picked up another. He made a note on a separate paper about recent watch costs. Vetinari had been on a rant (the patrician had termed it a “vigorous monologue”) about guilds and government services learning to self monitor their spending’s and gods could they please learn to fill out a tax form properly. Vimes had said, I’m not sure this is normal pillow talk. And Vetinari had huffed and said something about his being _quite_ sure that the Assassins’ guild owed more than ten dollars and two p.

On the wall opposite him was the web, the twine winding its way through evidence, pictures, newspaper clippings and handwritten reports. Credan had said that their abilities were the key. That someone was tying up loose ends. But to what purpose? The bank embezzlement case had failed and Sumners was out of the picture and Lipwig was more watchful than ever.

Pulling out his notebook he pencilled down, _lockpick._ He circled it. He added _explosives_ then a line between the two. A moment then _grey sky law._ A question mark next to that. Underneath it he wrote a reminder to visit Mr Slant about the matter. He knew it had something to do with finances and fraud, but wasn’t sure on the details.

The connection, he sighed. He could see the grey sky being connected to the embezzlement. That made sense. A lawyer would know the loop holes one could use to commit fraud. That was easy. But lock picking and explosives? And where did the doctor and the seamstresses fit it?

Mrs Palmer had said that the girl, the sixteen year old, was named Addie Bayole. She was new to the city from Genua and looking for a fresh start. He sighed, stood and stomped over to the wall. Holding a candle close he stared at the doctor, the small tattoo Credan had seen, then looked over to the dead girl. Both were from Genua, he noted. But they only had Credan’s word on the doctor. No one they had spoken to had said anything about the doctor being anything but Morkporkian. He certainly didn’t look Genuan.

And how did that bank clerk, Grubbins, fit in? Setting the candle aside Vimes added a new piece of paper to the wall with the name and underneath it ‘bank of AM’.

 

Sitting back down he tried to concentrate on the report in front of him (an unlicensed theft, nothing was stolen except for a single loaf of bread and two candlesticks). He could hear drunken shouting from the desk and new someone was being hauled into the drunk tank. There were a few creative curses before silence. Then laughter from the constables before it quieted down.

He reread the report. Grumbled under his breath and set it aside to deal with in the morning. As he grabbed the next report there was a firm knock on the door.

‘Enter, captain.’ He said and watched Carrot emerge from the gloom of the hallway.

‘There’s been a murder, sir.’ He said without preamble. ‘Another thief. Thought you’d want to know.’

The commander stood and grabbed his coat, ‘thank you, captain. Who found the body?’

‘A lamplighter, sir.’ They were in the front hall and Vimes motioned for Littlebottom to join then, Constable Furrow could handle the desk until Detritus took over. ‘Found him by the Pearl docks.’

           

 

When they arrived there was already a crowd gathered around the body. Vimes pushed his way through, shooting glares at the onlookers. It’s near midnight, and they don’t have anywhere else to be? He thought as he stubbed out his cigar and waited for the constables to push the crowd back to an acceptable distance.

There was a sheet over the body but blood was oozing over already stained cobbles and a limp hand stuck out from beneath, like a half covered, disjointed mannequin. Littlebottom set her bag down and pulled the sheet back to reveal a man in his thirties with dark hair and sallow skin.

‘Same as before, sir,’ Littlebottom said as she stood and dusted off her knees. ‘Garrotting with a post-mortem beating and disfiguring of the face.’ She leaned over and opened the mouth to show a missing tongue and teeth. ‘I’ll need Igor to do a full autopsy before we’ll know if the teeth were taken out before or after death.’

‘Time of death?’

‘I estimate it to be anywhere from four to eight.’

Out of the corner of his eye Vimes caught sight of the familiar looming figure of the inspector. Credan oozed his way between the constables and marched over to the body wearing a veritable war face. Vimes knelt down and turned over the thief’s right hand. There was scaring along the thumb going up to the wrist. He motioned for Littlebottom to join him.

‘Have Igor see if this is hiding anything.’

‘Sir?’

‘Sometimes scaring is used to hide a tattoo. It’s a, a pet theory of mine.’

She nodded and raised her eyes as a shadow covered the body.

‘Who is this?’ Credan asked without preamble.

‘We don’t know.’ Vimes carefully tugged the sheet over the man’s hand and stood with slow, precise movements. He took his half finished cigar back out and lit it. He blew smoke out slowly and stared at the inspector for another minute. ‘Can I help you?’ He asked at last.

‘Who is Lipwig?’

 ‘A banker. Why?’

Littlebottom glanced between them before giving a cough, ‘I can take the body now, sir.’

‘Fine.’ The commander gave a curt nod. Another puff of smoke. Credan glowered.

‘Where is he from?’

Vimes studied him for a moment before turning from the scene and walking over to a mouth of an alley.

‘Uberwald,’ he held up a hand. ‘And before you ask, we don’t know _where_ in Uberwald. His wife might, though. But good luck getting an answer from her.’

Credan tilted his head to the side, it was oddly comical. ‘He’s married?’

'Yes, and a father. He’s a pillar of the community.’ The last few words were sneered and Credan allowed a semblance of a hint of a smile to grace his features.

‘But you think otherwise?’

Vimes smiled. He dropped the end of his cigar on the cobbles and crushed it beneath his heel.

‘I don’t have an opinion on him either way.’

The Quirmian snorted and took out a notebook, ‘excuse me if I don’t believe you. Is that lordship of yours the reason you don’t have an opinion?’

‘I don’t know what the patrician has to do with any of this.’

‘Is he what you would call a moral man?’

Vimes considered this for a moment then shrugged. ‘In his own way. Or do you mean is he a lawful man?’

‘I mean what I say.’ He jotted down something.

Vimes turned and looked back at the crime scene. He sighed. ‘We can discuss this tomorrow, I have a crime scene to deal with right now.’

Credan demurred and murmured his good nights. When Vimes looked back over his shoulder the inspector was gone.

 

 

It was rash, the commander knew, sneaking into the palace after than conversation. He found Vetinari seated before the fire with a book and decided he wasn’t going to ask what the patrician was doing awake at half two in the morning.

‘Commander,’ Vetinari sighed as he set the book aside. Vimes flung himself into the chair opposite the other man and glowered at the fire. ‘I’m not sure what the fireplace as done to deserve your ire, but I’m sure it was unintentional.’

‘I can’t abide that man.’

‘Which man would this be?’ There was something of amusement on the patrician’s face and Vimes wanted to wipe the smug look off. He settled for moving his glare to the patrician instead. ‘I can think of quite a few who you cannot abide.’

‘ _Credan._ ’ Sneered between gritted teeth. ‘He was asking after Lipwig and then he was asking something else entirely while still asking about Lipwig.’

‘Sounds like a man after my heart.’

Vimes glared with greater ferocity before giving the game up and sitting back with a huff. Vetinari leaned forward and patted his knee before standing and moving over to the drinks cabinet.

‘There’s some tea left if you’d like,’ he said. Vimes mumbled a reply that Vetinari took as a ‘yes’. He poured two cups and returned to the fire.

‘He asked about you,’ Vimes said.

‘Did he?’

‘He asked if you were the reason I had no opinion on Lipwig.’

Vetinari did his Not Smiling smile behind the teacup and Vimes smirked.

‘Oh yes, and he asked if you were a moral man.’

‘Dear me, and what did you say?’

‘That you were in your own way.’

The patrician made a sound and set the cup down. He regarded Vimes for a quiet moment then said, I never knew you thought so highly of me.

Vimes grumbled, Come off it. You already knew that. And the tea’s cold.

‘Yes, well, it’s a bit old.’ Vetinari watched Vimes for another minute before coming to an apparent decision. ‘Come to bed,’ he said as he stood. ‘You could use a few hours of sleep.

‘We found another one.’ Vimes remained seated. He was staring at the fire. Vetinari didn’t say anything, he waited patiently, standing by the commander’s chair. ‘A thief. Guild licensed. Named George Hernshaw. He was forty two years of age. Garrotted. Like an animal.’ A sigh escaped and his shoulders slumped a fraction. A thin hand pressed into his shoulder gently.

‘Come, commander,’ said softly and Vimes stood and followed.

 

 

Vimes woke a few hours later to an empty bed and an occupied desk. The patrician was peering over a clacks message and had a cup of something hot at his elbow. Vimes rolled over and grabbed his uniform and managed to find his watch, it read half four.

‘You never sleep,’ he mumbled into the pillow.

‘That’s not entirely true.’ It was a content reply. There was the sound of papers shuffling.

‘Wake me up in an hour.’

‘If you’d like.’

A muffled reply as Vimes tried to say, ‘I don’t bloody like it but I have to.’ It came out more akin to ‘hmm bluffy lmkf … ief hflh to’.

‘Quite.’ When Vetinari turned to look at the commander he found him asleep with covers over his head and buried into the pillows. It would have been termed endearing if anyone other than the patrician was doing the terming. He just labelled it as something Vimes did and moved on.

 

 

When Vimes arrived at the watch he grabbed Carrot by the sleeve and murmured, I want a word with you when you get a chance, captain. Oh, and how’s the Quirmian?

‘Dropping by the post office, at least that’s what I last heard from Angua.’ He shifted his feet. Shrugged. ‘Anything else, sir?’

‘No, and that’s fine. Out of our hair.’ Sighing he poured a cup of coffee.

‘If that’s all, sir, I promised Angua I would pick her up new anti-flea shampoo before she returned.’

Vimes nodded and waved him off. The captain said he would return in a few hours if that wasn’t too long?

‘Yes, yes, that’s fine. Off with you, captain.’

 

 

His office is the mid tones of yellow and grey when he nudges to door open and dumps papers and a half empty coffee cup on his desk. Behind him is the wall covered in twine and evidence and iconographs. He swears he can feel dead eyes on him and finds himself thinking he might have been doing this for too long.

Vetinari hadn’t asked about the murder and Vimes knew there was a two-fold reason and he wondered which part of it was the ruling part. Concern for Vimes and their Agreement or the fact that he probably already knew all the details.     As the commander flipped open to a new page in his notebook he pondered the patrician. This usually didn’t bode well and resulted in circular thinking. A frustrated sigh as he wrote the words _Common Evidence_ down and made a jot underneath it. His eyes drifted up to the wall of evidence.

He scrawled _organised?._ Getting up he stalked over and peered at the pictures of the dead girls. Their hands were hidden by their clothes and he knew they were long buried. Letting out a soft curse he jotted down a note to ask Igor if he remembered anything.

If it’s organised there had to be a person running the scene. A boss of some sort to push the papers, make sure everything was in line and the garbage was taken out. Gods, he thought. I’m starting to sound like Vetinari. That’s not all right.

‘Sir,’ Carrot’s head was peaking in through the cracked door. ‘You wanted me?’

‘Yes, come in.’ Vimes motioned to the wall. ‘A fresh pair of eyes on this will do me good. What do you make of it? The drugs, the murders, the embezzlement.’

‘A recent rise in crime, sir.’

‘Yes.’

Carrot stared at the wall then asked, carefully, ‘Do you think it’s connected?’

‘Very good, captain. The how is more the issue.’

Carrot peered at the pictures and Vimes pointed out the tattoo. The captain murmured that he felt as if he had seen it before, somewhere.

‘It’s familiar,’ he explained. ‘But sort of like I might have seen it years ago. Maybe on another case?’

They made a note to look up past cases. Vimes stared his reminder about Igor. Carrot pulled down the information on the embezzlement case and began peering through it. He frowned, turned a page over then looked up at the iconographs. ‘This family,’ he said motioning to the files in his lap. ‘They’re obviously not real. What if they’re,’ his hand drifted up to the dead bodies. Vimes raised an eyebrow and fished for a cigarette. Emboldened Carrot continued. ‘So Credan mentioned that their abilities might be the reason they’re linked and the reason for their deaths. What if they were the family? What if the seamstresses were the wife and daughter, the lawyer the father, the baker the grandfather…’

Vimes coughed and set his cigar to the side. ‘Wait, wait, what about the thieves guild? There were no young men as part of the family. Where do they fit in?’

Carrot shrugged, ‘maybe it’s separate?’ He flipped through the file again. ‘What were the thieves good at?’

‘Lock picking and explosives.’ Something was tugging at him and he couldn’t place it. But he knew he was close. He jabbed his finger at the wall, ‘and the doctor, captain? What about the doctor? And the man from last night.’

‘He was another thief, registered so it wasn’t a guild culling.’ Carrot pulled up a bit of paper and wrote a name. ‘George Hernshaw, age forty two, specialised in false bottoms and trap doors.’

‘Gods there’s something here,’ Vimes growled. ‘I know there is. So the family, such as they were, are killed because they failed. Or knew too much about something.’

‘Or someone.’

Vimes nodded, ‘yes. Or someone. Fine. The thieves, same thing. Maybe they’re working on something different. And what about the smuggling? How does that fit into organised non-guild theft?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’  Carrot sat back and sighed. ‘Maybe – maybe it’s like a guild? As in, it’s organised, these crimes. They all lead back to the same end goal and we just don’t know what it is.’

‘Then why not just join the thieves guild? Why not become an assassin? A beggar?’ Vimes shook his head. ‘No, they’re after something bigger. Assuming it’s a ‘they’. Do you know of this happening elsewhere, captain?’

‘Nossir. But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t. Look, staring at papers all day isn’t going to help. We need to ask around. See if anyone has noticed anything in particular. Maybe send in a few of the Cablestreet boys and see if they can fish anything up.’

Nodding Vimes crossed back to his desk and finished what was left of the coffee. It was cold and bitter but he was looking out the window and thinking about guilds. Guilds that are organised and licenced by the city. By Vetinari. But they weren’t always, were they? Under Snapcase, Winder, all the others, they had been tenuously legal. They had been underground but organised. Organised crime and under one head of that particular division. And families work a similar way. He thought of the Venturi family – that Vetinari had said some just sort of breed for intrigue.

‘We’re looking for one person,’ Vimes said with a whisper. ‘One person.’

‘Sir?’ Carrot was standing behind him holding an open file. His uniform, Vimes knew, was gleaming.

‘There is one person running this. Like a family. The patriarch. And we need to find this one person. Ask Igor about the tattoos and have Detritus go to Crysophase. Even if he’s not involved in it he bloody well has information on it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Carrot was at the door. Vimes was staring out the window at the fog filled city.  ‘Though, to fair, they did only try the bank heist a month ago. I doubt they’ll be after anything huge in the next week.’

Vimes allowed that it may be true. He turned as the captain was about to leave, ‘Grubbins, captaion.’

‘Sir?’

‘Look up Ned Grubbins. A friend of our Shryer “family”.’

Carrot nodded and gave a salute. Vimes nodded absently and fingered a set of files on his desk.

 

           

At six Vimes wandered into his study and found young Sam building a castle. There was paste and wood chippings sprinkled across the floor.

‘I hope you know you’re cleaning this up,’ Vimes said as he sat down next to his son.

‘Oh yes. Wilkins already said I’d have to.’ Sam stuck a guard against the battlements. ‘It’s for me and Shay. She’s making a lord’s manner and we’re gonna wage war on the weekend.’

‘Oh dear,’ Vimes grinned and poked at one of the guards. ‘Who’s going to win?’

The boy shrugged, ‘I dunno. Isn’t that the point of war? Not knowing?’

'Usually you only go to war if you either know you’re going to win or have no other option.’ He wondered if he should mention the Leshp affair and decided not to. A box of paints were hauled out and he found himself with a brush in hand and instructions to make the watch tower look proper real.

‘Mr Patrician says that sometimes you can win a war by not going to war.’ Young Sam thought about the statement before shaking his head. ‘But I don’t know if he’s right. Oh. And dad, he says that he’s not a bad influence. Just a uh, “firm presence of realism”.’

Vimes muttered under his breath and painted in a small window of the tower. They were fast running out of grey so making do with a muddy green.

‘When did you see Mr Patrician?’

‘After school today. I left a book at the palace and have to write a report on it.’

Vimes frowned a fraction as he scrounged through the box for paint that had yet to dry out. This wasn’t part of the Agreement, he thought. This wasn’t part of anything, really. This was different.

‘Was he busy?’

Young Sam scoffed, ‘Oh no. Just reading some paper.’

‘Hm,’ he paused. ‘You do know that’s his job?’

‘I thought he ruled the city.’

‘He does.’

Sam looked sceptical and painted the guard a garish purple. ‘He didn’t look like he was. I told him he didn’t look like he was.’

The commander snorted and painted a sky blue window. ‘And what did he say?’

‘Nothing.’ The boy scowled. ‘Just said I was cute.’ He huffed and added a guard to the roof of the guard tower. ‘But I’m not. I’m a grown up.’

It took a moment before Vimes was laughing and trying to avoid his son’s glare. He managed a, Of course, of course you are. Before snickering into traffic reports as he retired to his desk.

 

 

When Vimes stumbled back into the watch house later that night he found a certain escaped prisoner waiting in his room. Sussie Sumners dropped a thick file on his desk.

‘The man you’re looking for is named Finnigan. Finnigan Fern.’

Vimes stared at her and muttered, That better not be his real name.

‘It’s not. But it’s what we have so far.’ She opened the file to a detailed drawing of the tattoo. ‘We had tests run and the tattoos are new. So they’re not a traditional family marking.’ She took a seat in front of him and pushed a pair of glasses on. ‘Tell me, commander, what do you know about heraldry?’ 


	4. Exit left. Followed by predatory flamingo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh look there's an update. 
> 
> [shuffles off]

On the rooftops of the city, as the moon slid behind a convenient cloud, Death leaned against a half-hazard chimney. He watched as people jostled, shifted forward, and _moved._ He reasoned He always enjoyed the city when it was like this – in the in-between of worlds, as the Good go home and the Not Quite Evil But Certainly Up To Something emerge.

He amended His previous thought from ‘Good’ to ‘At Least Marginally Law Abiding’. He said to the air, FOR IT WOULD BE AN INJUSTICE TO CONFUSE THE TWO.

Somewhere a person screamed and Death pulled an hourglass from His robes. He tapped it and shook His head. It wasn’t time just yet. Next to Him the Death of Rats merely replied, SQUEAK.

‘I FEEL RATS HAVE IT EASIER,’ He said as He moved towards the scream. The Assassins’ Guild had been busy lately. ‘THERE IS LITTLE TO DISTINGUISH BETWEEN A GOOD RAT, A MERICFUL RAT, A JUST RAT, AND A MORAL RAT. ‘

‘SQUEAK SQUEAK.’

‘OH YES, THEY ARE ALL VERY DIFFERENT THINGS WHEN ONE GETS DOWN TO IT. FOR HUMANS, THAT IS.’

 

It was half ten when Sumners finally departed (through the third story trick window). Vimes had pointed out that the back door was perfectly serviceable but Sumners had replied that, as a clerk, there were certain Standards expected of her. Sir.

‘I think his lordship believes that it is better to be alive than “cool”.’

Sumners, with her body half out the window, had smiled.

‘Precisely, Mister Vimes.’

 

Vimes stared at the file in front of him. Sumners had explained that the tattoos were influenced by the Genuan tradition, however these were not family tattoos; or, at least, family in the traditional sense.

On the top of the file was a careful drawing done by a familiar-unfamiliar hand of a bell that was set atop a small house. Vimes scowled at the image and muttered, Does he still keep him in a tower, I wonder.

‘Keep who in a tower, commander?’

‘Inspector.’

The stocky man stood in the door and quickly removed his hat. His coat was an unpalatable grey and caused him appear to be a walking day old bruise.

‘I’m here to inform you that there has been a breach of law enforcement by your men.’

Ah. The commander internalised a sigh, took a seat, and set the file aside. He flipped his notebook open to a new page and carefully set his pencil down next to it. Sitting back he motioned for Credan to entre and sit. The inspector did the first but refused the latter.

‘This evening there was an altercation at an establishment called The Mended Drum.’

Vimes thought it a bit rich to call the Drum an _establishment._

‘Oh?’

‘Between a gentleman and a woman of ill repute. The woman attacked the man and your men arrested her. Of this I approve.’

Vimes resisted the urge to hurry the man up. Credan, he was finding, was the sort of man you had to wait for. The story would out eventually but it had to be teased, prodded, encouraged.

‘It is the law, after all. However, I was dismayed to see them un-cuffing her not two blocks away.’

‘Did they give a reason?’

‘They said that it wasn’t worth it to fully charge her and that it was the Drum and that this was better than what usually happened. As if that was a valid excuse.’  He paused then asked with a suspicious look, ‘what usually happens there?’

Ignoring the question Vimes asked after the man involved.  He secretly doubted that the person in question was a ‘gentleman’ if he was at the Drum.

‘I don’t know of the gentleman involved in the altercation but the arresting officers were your _inspector_ Littlebottom and the lance-constable Liltovitch.’

The commander made a slow, careful note, and nodded.

‘Thank you, inspector.’

‘What is the usual procedure for such an infraction?’

Credan was still standing at attention and Vimes wondered if the man was capable of unbending. If only for five minutes. He reasoned that it would probably kill the poor sod.

‘Well,’ he began carefully. ‘I usually just read their reports and if something’s out of place I’ll haul their sorry asses in here. Or make Captain Carrot lecture them. Whichever is more likely to work.’ He paused. ‘Though I’m sure there’s an explanation. Littlebottom’s a good copper.’

Credan scowled, ‘you say that as if it means something. All men can err. Even _good_ coppers. It’s our nature, after all.’

Visit would have loved you, Vimes thought. Two men of the same cloth. Though, the former constable had been softer about the edges. ‘True enough, inspector. And if they did in any egregious way I’ll make sure their erring arses deal with it. But for now no harm has been done.’

‘They broke the law and let a criminal go.’

‘How is your investigation coming along?’ The smile was forced and huge and was taking up too much space on his face. He later thought, Fuck you Vetinari. I’m using words like _egregious_ now.

Credan’s face lit up, ‘well. Quite well, actually.’ His shoulders straightened a fraction and he stood straighter, if that was possible. ‘I believe I may have my man in my net. Now I’m just waiting for the opportune moment to bring him in.’

‘Very good, glad to hear it.’ He paused. There was the heaviness of un-sated curiosity but he let it lie. He didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of regaling his successes while Vimes’ noticeable lack on recent cases hung obviously in the air.

The inspector, sensing that the interview was over, gave a short bow and left. He paused at the door and asked, ‘commander, what is the greatest con, do you think?’

‘I don’t know. The bank? The government?’

Credan gave a slip of a smile, ‘I think, rather, it would be out –conning the conman. Good evening, commander. And if I were you, I’d weigh the moral integrity of my officers more carefully.’

 

            

‘I’m not sure if I want to kill him or hit him.’ Vimes announced as Vetinari materialised near his desk in the Very Brown Library. ‘And you _bloody_ need to stop doing that. It’s creepy. And probably unhealthy.’

The patrician made a noise in the back of his throat as he sat down by the fire. Picking up Vimes’ copy of the evening _Times_ he turned to the back page.

‘Commander.’

‘Hm?’

'Twelve across isn’t “fuck”.’ A pencil appeared and there was a scratching noise. ‘And four down isn’t “bloody shit face”.’ Another scratching noise. ‘You have a rather creative vocabulary. Especially fifteen across. You know, I haven’t heard that expression in years.’

Vimes grumbled and shoved a few more reports into the ‘finished’ pile on the floor. ‘You passed your ‘camouflage and sneaking into places creepily’ course with flying colours, didn’t you?’

‘If you mean my Stealth examination, I do believe I failed it the first time.’

Vimes looked up with an expression akin to a shocked fish. Behind the paper Vetinari smirked.

‘You see, the teacher thought I hadn’t showed up to class all year.’

‘Did you?’

‘Oh yes. Religiously.’ Another scratching noise and a muttered complaint about nine across. ‘Apparently he couldn’t see me.’

Vimes mulled this over before he set his pen down. ‘I may not be the smartest man in the city, but I am fairly sure that’s the _point._ ’

The paper came down and the patrician was wearing his smirking-smile-non-smile*.

‘Yes, I made the same mistaken assumption as well. Needless to say, I passed the retake examination.’

‘Oh, well that’s good.’ Vimes didn’t sound convinced. ‘How?’

‘By aiming for slightly less than perfect. People are often disturbed if you are too good at something.’ The paper went back up and there was another mutter about the crossword. ‘Vimes, ‘fucking twat’ doesn’t fit into five down. Fitting two letters into a square doesn’t count.’ Vimes rolled his eyes and went back to the reports. A moment passed then the patrician murmured, ‘who is it that you want to maim in some unfortunate way? I can never keep track. It’s not me, is it?’

‘No. Well, after lunch it was, but not right now.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘It’s that bloody Quirmian inspector. He questioned the integrity of my officers.’

Vetinari lowered the paper and stared. Vimes glowered.

‘Look, we’re not perfect but we try. And if you followed the letter of the law three quarters of the city would be in the tanty. Both of us included.’      

‘Hm. I had forgotten those laws were still on the books. Would the inspector be upset about the seamstress let off earlier this evening?’

‘How did you – never mind.’

The patrician carefully folded the paper and set it aside. He settled back into the chair and watched Vimes. The commander scowled at him and pulled up another report, if only to have the semblance of something to do. After a minute Vetinari let out a small, almost there, sigh.

‘My understanding is that the good Inspector Credan believes that the law is Right. Right with a capital ‘R’. What is Right to him must also be what is Moral and Just. So any deviation from the law is to deviate from what is Right, Moral and Just. It’s a rather stringent view and, in my opinion, a boring and impractical one. So, by letting the seamstress go, even though she had assaulted a citizen-’

‘Who bloody started it. I asked Littlebottom.’

‘Be that as it may, the seamstress still assaulted a person and so she broke the law and deserved the full recourse.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘That, at least, is his view. It isn’t right and it isn’t wrong. Few view points are entirely one or the other.’

The commander pulled a face and muttered that it was too late for this sort of conversation. Even though he was pretty sure that patrician was wrong. Because some things were, no matter which way you look at it, Wrong. Wrong with a capital ‘W’. But, in this instance, he felt sure Credan was wrong because, oh gods he was tired, because something about justice and mercy and that everything has a story and the story of the event matters in how it should be dealt with. Because employing a blanket law over every situation just doesn’t work. He paused, stared at the report in front of him, looked up to the infuriatingly amused expression on Vetinari’s face, and muttered, ‘Bloody hell, I sound like you’.

\--

*A feat of muscle contortion that should not be tried at home.

 

Later, Vimes fucked Vetinari into the wall and told himself that it was therapeutic. That it was to wipe that insufferably smug expression off the other man’s face.

It had nothing to do with how good the other man felt under him. It had nothing to do with the way Vimes had memorised Vetinari’s body – the muscles, bones, skin, scrape of his beard, legs around his waist. It had nothing to do with the hushed noises who could drag from the patrician. The soft moans and gasps hard won and wrung from unwilling throat.

And, right now, it certainly had nothing to do with Vetinari ordering the commander to fuck him, maybe over the desk or against the wall, whichever is handier, yes that’d probably be a good decision. Don’t you think, commander?

No, Vimes told himself, it had to do with Vetinari correcting his crosswords. It had to do with him being so cool and calm all the bloody time. It had to do with – oh, how tight he was and how good he smelled and that stupid smirk he always wore. And – oh gods – Vetinari ws quietly moaning something that sounded suspiciously like Vimes’ name. One hand was braced against the wall and the other had fingers digging into Vimes’ hips, jerking him forward.

Vimes leaned forward, resting his forehead on Vetinari’s back, and thought, Well fuck.

 

 

Even later, as Vimes readied himself to leave for his shift he said, ‘I still don’t know about all of this.’

And Vetinari replied, ‘We are speaking a similar enough language, if that helps, Sir Samuel.’

‘Language?’

‘Everything is language. Actions are language, interpretations of actions, reactions to actions. It’s all language. And we speak a similar one, though hardly the same.’ A hum. ‘I think, if it was the same, we’d find it rather boring. What is there in _this,_ whatever you want to term it, than to navigate each other’s languages?’

Vimes was adjusting his coat. He was feeling the weight of his armour. He was ignoring the eyes that were trained on his neck.

‘Are you…happy?’ He tried to not sneer.

‘I am…content.’ A pause. ‘And yourself?’

‘The same.’

Vetinari sighed.

‘And here we are, Sir Samuel, speaking similar yet dissimilar languages.’

Vimes tensed, frowned. Vetinari was behind him and dressed and watching and careful.

‘It keeps things interesting.’ The patrician said to the commander. The commander nodded and said to the patrician, You’re an obtuse bastard when you want to be one. And the patrician murmured, as the commander left, The same to you too.

 

 

Lipwig didn’t like conmen. He didn’t trust them. Adora said they were all right, once you got to know them. But, then, she had married one which shows how much she knows.

The man Lipwig was speaking with was a conman. Rotten through to the core and out the back side. Like himself. That didn’t bare contemplation so he stopped and moved on.

Grubbins was neat. Prim. Very brown. A wall paper sort of man. A _Lipwig_ sort of man. When Grubbins moved it was hazy. When he smiled it was forgetful. There is, after all, more than one kind of apple in the orchard.

They were discussing a recent merge between the Pseudopolis banks. They were discussing columns and numbers and Grubbins was giving less information than he was getting, a state of affairs that Lipwig found suspicious. The only man allowed to do that was the patrician. A different sort of conman entirely. Lipwig paused, then said, ‘Come to my office, Mr. Grubbins. It’s more comfortable than the hall. Fewer draughts.’

The man nodded and trailed after the postman-banker. The postman-banker was uncertain of Grubbins’ age. He guessed forty. A nice middling age. But, he knew, the man could just as well be fifty or as young as thirty. Maybe, even, a very young sixty.

Grubbins took his tea plain and sat stiffly in the offered chair. Lounging behind his desk Lipwig sighed.

‘Look, Mr Grubbins, if you leave quietly I think that’d be best. Say a familiar matter came up.’        

Grubbins didn’t respond. He sipped his tea.

‘I know what you are. And I know you’re not one of the patrician’s “reform projects”. So, if you leave quietly, I’ll say nothing. Maybe try the thieves guild. They hire regularly, I hear.’

Nothing.

Lipwig sighed again. ‘Look, Mr Grubbins – ‘

‘I really wish you hadn’t said anything,’ the man finally said. He set his teacup down with a definitive thump.

His voice is like wall paper, Lipwig thought. If brown butcher’s paper could talk.

‘I like you, Mr Lipwig. So this is going to hurt me far more than it will you. I’m very sorry.’


	5. Ante Bellum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad Latin.

Credan snatched at Vimes when the commander slunk into the watch house.

‘I want to talk to you about Thaine.’ He explained. They were in the stairwell and officers were watching-not watching. Vimes shrugged, Sure, come up.

‘You don’t like me,’ Credan grinned as he took a seat. His hat was in his lap and he looked like a terrier barely leashed. A terrier with a pitbull neck and cruel, Sheppard eyes. ‘Few men do. But I don’t ask them to. What I do ask for is cooperation. Both from my colleagues in Quirm and from my colleagues in other cities.’

Vimes lit a cigar. He doused the match in day old coffee and sat back with an air of ease. Behind him was early morning sun but the shutters were half closed so the room felt more like late afternoon going to dusk. Credan flicked dust off his hat.

He continued, ‘I’m going to arrest Mr Lipwig.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes, your grace. Today. He’s Thaine, I'm convinced, and Thaine could be this Finnigen you’re after – wouldn’t be for the benefit of all to bring him in sooner rather than later?’

A minute ticked by. The commander carefully set his cigar aside and leaned forward. Elbows rested on the desk and his hands were clapsed. His voice quiet, Just how do you know this?

‘Their cons are similar. I’ve been off and on the Thaine case for the past six years so I’m familiar with his style and the tactics he uses to rope in his victims.’

‘Ah.’ Vimes sat back. Credan stared at him and the copper thought that, in this light, with that stare, he could see why the men in Quirm respected him. ‘That might not be so easy as all that.’

‘If you’re suggesting that _we_ flout the law and let a _known_ criminal go free-‘

‘See he’s already been hung for one set of crimes and was sort of, ah, pardoned for the others. Court case is done and I don’t think the patrician would take kindly-‘

His cigar was smoldering and he could see faces in the smoke and was thinking about the dead and dying when Angua knocked at the door. It was a frantic one. One that didn’t wait for a response as she stuck her head in, ‘so sorry, sir.’

‘Captain.’

‘Ms Dearheart is here to see you.’

‘Can it wait?’

‘Afraid not, sir. Lipwig gone’s missing.’

Three things happened all at once: Credan snarled, He’s done a runner. Vimes watched his cigar fade out and the smoke dwindle to nothing. Adora stalked into the room and hissed, ‘I want him found, commander. And you’re going to do it so help me gods.’

  
And it could have been a play, Vimes thought later. From this point on it could have been a play. One of those bawdy ones done dock-side in the summer. One of those bawdy ones that have a lot of death and blood and pointless plot twists. Gods, this _life_ of mine.

 

 

  
When Moist woke he was tied to a chair and feeling worse than a rum and tequila based hangover. The room was dark, smelled like rotten fish, and was silent. Very silent. The sort of silent that drove men insane if they’re kept in it long enough.

He had been in jails before, to be sure. But never like this. There was once, though. When he was in Pseudopolis and had ended up at the wrong end of the cudgel of a particularly brutish cop and found himself in the tanty. They called it the Hole. A room that didn’t exist except that it did in the fear in the eyes of the inamtes. A room that didn’t exist except for the hurried whispers at night of places some men go to and don’t come back from.

Next to him had been a man named Tilly. Tilly had been mad. And Tilly had one time said, But I wasn’t always as this, good sir. Gods bless you sir. I used to be as you are now. Though better shaved. And with cockles in my hair. But then there was the nightime and the night time and the whispers that come only in the dark and don’t you know I like the lights on up here because they keep the shadow men away. Have you seen them? The shadow men. They come at night. When you can’t see them and they can’t see you but they can smell you.

The men said, Of everyone sent _there_ only Tilly ever got out alive. Sort of. If what he is now could be considered alive.

The room was damp, musty, and most likely underground. Moist put it near the river, judging from the smell and the incoming river.

He was tied to a chair and gagged. He decided that this was one of the more unpleasant moments of his life. Down the hall there were footsteps. And they were coming closer.

 

 

Adora went over the facts again. She and Moist were supposed to meet for a late lunch the day before and he never showed. Fine. Bank things happen and she didn’t like the restaurant, anyway. Then he didn’t come home for dinner. Less than fine since she’d actually made an effort and had take out curry brought in. When he wasn’t there in the morning she began to be concerned.

‘He works a lot or he’s out reliving glory days only in more benign “get past bank security” ways. So to miss a meal, sure, it happens but to not be there to tuck Rosie in is usually a sign of trouble. I went in this morning and no one has seen him or that Grubbins bastard since yesterday around noon. I know something’s wrong, Commander and I want you to fix it.’

Vimes coughed. Adora handed him a cigarette. He took it and ignored the glare from Credan.

‘Do you or the bank have any idea where he may have been taken?’

Adora shook her head. Snubbed about her smoke. Lit another one and glared furiously at everyone in the room. Vimes was reminded that he’d be the same had Sybil disappeared. No. He’d be different. He’d be raging through the city with the two Captains trying to talk sense to him and Cheery looking mildly upset and Colon and Nobby not meeting his eye. Adora’s anger was quieter. More direct. More deadly. He wanted to ask, Did you ever spend some time at the Assassins guild? It made him want to laugh. Instead he flipped through his notebook.

‘Thank you, Ms Dearheart. We’ll get on this immediately. If you hear anything more, please let us know.’

‘Of course, commander.’

‘Oh, Ms Dearheart. Does your tobacconist do cigars, by any chance?’

‘I think so, why?’

‘Thank you. Captain, you can show her out.’

 

 

Credan was prowling the room as soon as the door was closed. If this was thinking it was akin to being run over by a rabid bull.

‘Thoughts, inspector?’

‘His wife?’

‘Yes. Sort of. I’m not sure if they actually got married or if they’re sort of married by proxy of having no one else put up with them. They have a daughter.’

‘Oh?’

‘Named Rosie. Very young. Lipwig dotes on her.’ Vimes rearranged the papers on his desk. Credan stopped and stared at the wall of evidence. ‘She can say ma-ma and da-da and kiddy now. They assume she means kitty.’

‘He’s a criminal, Commander.’

‘Sure. A conman. A flashy bastard. Not a murderer. I know murderers, inspector. As I’m sure you do as well. Meet Lipwig face to face and you’ll see what I mean. He’s not an assassin, he’s not a cut throat, he’s just a conman.’

The inspector turned around and stalked back to the desk, hands tight behind his back. Coming to stop in front of Vimes he very carefully unfolded his arms and placed his palms flat on the worn wood.

‘I want that man, when all is said and done.’

Vimes stared back. He snubbed the cigarette out and fished a new one from his case. His eyes never left Credan’s face.

‘I’ll give him to you,’ Vimes conceded. ‘But good luck getting Vetinari’s sticky fingers off of him. Apparently there are _plans_ and if you live in this city long enough you learn real fast not to get between the patrician and his plans.’ He flipped open his notebook and stared at the sketch of the insignia. Credan glared. ‘We’re changing the subject now, inspector. We’re moving on. We’re going to talk about mafias now.’

‘Are we?’

‘If you know what’s good for you we are.’ There was a knock at the door and Carrot stuck his head in. ‘Just on time, captain. Come in. The good inspector and I are trying to figure out this puzzle.’

‘Do you think Lipwig’s disappearance has anything to do with it?’ Carrot asked. He smiled cheerfully at Credan. Of _course_ he smiled cheerfully at Credan. The inspector gave an uncertain smile back.

‘If it doesn’t I’ll eat my badge.’

Carrot looked over the sketch and handed it to Credan who glared at it. Vimes wondered when was the last time he had seen a man glare as much as Credan. Probably Venturi’s garden party when the Selachii’s showed up and then the “dead body in the punch with the badger” incident happened.

‘Looks a bit like heraldry.’ Carrot’s face was innocent as he said it. Vimes never trusted Carrot’s innocent face.

‘Well that narrows the list,’ he grumbled. ‘Fine, so whoever is doing this is educated, posh – or at least trying to act posh.’

‘And isn’t Lipwig that, now? Posh? Or trying to act it? Your patrician made him that despite the fact that once a man is a criminal he is always a criminal. A leopard cannot change his shorts.’

Vimes took the sketch back. Let out a stream of smoke and stared at Credan.

Carrot looked uncomfortable.

Outside it was sunny.

 

 

The door opened and Moist was ready. Grubbins’ face appeared in the light which was too bright and the former conman turned banker managed to say around the gag, ‘Wait, wait, I want to join you.’

 

 

The Oblong Office was cool. Somehow the patrician managed to keep it hover around zero or sub zero temperatures even in the middle of warm spring day. Vimes was convinced magic was involved. Vetinari had tried to explain the cooling effects of marble and thermodynamics and air currents. Vimes had just replied, ugh _science._

‘Where’s my banker, Vimes?’ Vetinari’s voice was level. He was steepling his fingers and staring up at the commander.

‘We’re trying to locate him, sir.’

‘Very good.’ He picked up a piece of paper. ‘Captain Carrot says in his report that the markings found on the bodies looks like heraldry.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Care to expand?’

‘We think the top person might be posh. Or pretending to posh and most certainly educated.’

‘May I see it?’

Vimes fished for his notebook and opened to the page. Vetinari hummed as he saw it, tapped the page twice then said that it was _very_ interesting. Thank you, commander.

‘If you or one of your bloody dark clerks-‘

‘What dark clerks?’

‘You know the ones. Know anything about this-‘

Vetinari smiled. Vimes wanted to kiss him then hit him. Or maybe the other way around.

‘Heraldry is an interesting subject.’ Vetinari murmured. ‘Too bad one couldn’t ask the Dragon King of Arms about it.’

There was something teetering on the edge of the conversation. Vimes snatched his notebook back and scowled at the picture.

‘He’s mad, now. Insane, isn’t he?’

Vetinari smiled some more. ‘Heraldry is like a crossword puzzle. One that is particularly fond of puns.’

‘Oh _gods_ –‘

‘A bell set atop a small house. Old word for house is?’

Groaning the commander lowered himself into a chair, head in hands. Vetinari repeated his question.

‘I don’t know. Do I have to decline it? _Domus_?’

Vetinari nodded, Yes, yes, commander. _Domus_. He drew the bell. ‘Another word is _familia_.  Household, family, brotherhood. A myriad of meanings, some more common than others. I think family will serve. So a bell over a family or brotherhood.’

‘ _Campana_? Bell? Tintun- tintin something.’

‘ _Tintinabulum_. Bell, signal so on.’ Vetinari frowned.

‘Not a pun though, is it? _Campana domus_?  _Campana familia_.’

Vetinari shrugged and settled back in his chair. ‘That, my dear commander, is why you’re the head of police and I am not. Bell and house. I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out. How’s our Quirmian inspector?’

Vimes blinked then shrugged. ‘Oh, fine. He wants to arrest Lipwig.’

‘Does he, now?’

‘Yes.’

The patrician nodded. Very well, thank you commander. Don’t let me detain you.

Vimes glared, grabbed Vetinari’s collar, gave something that was more a bite than a kiss and left. 


	6. Secret Things

He had to admit it was a secret thing. There were dark corners and whispers and cryptic messages which usually resulted in them missing each other more than anything. If only because their logic worked in different circles and routes and corkscrew rounds.

But really, for all the complications and glowering looks and snarking, sneering remarks – all of which were quite public, it was secret.

It was secret because it was dirty. It was secret because it was wrong. Wrong because wasn’t he a man and weren’t they both men and so it was wrong. Wasn’t _natural._ Wasn’t _moral._ Whatever moral meant and in this city Vimes wasn’t sure who had the right to speak about Morals.

He had read somewhere that things being secret made them better. He wasn’t sure who had written that but he wanted to hurt them. Secret was never better. An uncle will tell a niece “this is our little secret”. A man will tell a woman “this is a secret” and then he will hurt her and then he will say that he loves her. A thief will steal in secret. A murderer will kill in secret. Secret is not better. Vimes said this one night and Vetinari had shrugged and said, But sometimes it’s necessary.

Vimes explained his reasoning.

Vetinari replied, ah Vimes.

 

 

As he walked back to the watch house he remembered Sybil. When Vimes remembered Sybil it was usually because it was sunny out and there were a million and a half reasons to be happy with his life. But then he remembered dark corners and secret things and thinks that of all the men on the disc why did she have to fall in love with him? And of all the women on the disc why did it have to be her who died? He had said, when they had married, I will love you until the end of time. He hadn’t broken that promise. He told himself that as he shoved past Credan, past Carrot, past Angua – he hadn’t broken that promise because gods above know he still loves her. Isn’t a man capable of loving more than one person?

 

 

Credan stuck his head in after half an hour and declared, ‘I think we should go on patrol.’

Vimes snarled that there was only _one_ commander in this place and it wasn’t _Credan._ The inspector stared, stepped in and closed the door.

‘I’m aware that you’re in a foul mood. From what I can gather, this is a normal occurrence. Regardless, I believe there is a conveniently missing _former_ criminal and I would like to locate him before any more harm comes from it.’ He tilted his head to the side. ‘Besides, the walk will be good for you and whatever it is that has you looking worse than a murderer.’

Vimes sat back. He could hear the familiar sounds of the watch house – men arguing downstairs, Angua yelling beat partner reminders, odd smells emanating from Cheery’s lab, the curses, the laughs, the sheer existence of people around him. I need to concentrate, he thought. I need to think rationally about Lipwig and the heraldry and this entire bloody godsforsaken case. This is clearly _not_ a place to think rationally.

In the shadows by Credan the wall of evidence loomed.

‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll do a quick patrol. Dockside.’

 

 

The air of the city was warm. Muggy, oppressive, pounding in on walls, people, clothes, streets. Vimes scuffed his way across bridges and down allies with Credan following as an unwelcome shadow. His tall hat and greatcoat made him more an undertaker than a copper.

The last thing I heard from Lipwig was how his daughter was. And Grubbins. Grubbins. Grubbins, Grubbins.

‘Have you heard of a Grubbins?’ He asked. Credan was mute. Vimes took this as an emphatic No. ‘Lipwig mentioned that he might be up to something the day before he was taken.’ Credan continued his silence. Vimes ground his cigar against an alley wall. ‘We’ll turn left up here, head down to the Pearl docks.’

‘Deeper into the shades?’

‘It’s where we’ve been finding evidence of screetch shipments. Different case but hm, maybe not. Probably not, knowing how this city works.’

There was silence. Credan was a prowling tiger in the way he moved through shadows. Vimes was feeling poetic so continued animalistic comparisons. Captain Angua, he mused, was not wolfish. Not in the bookish way that his son refers to when writing his essays for school. No, no, Downey had more of that sort of thing than Captain Angua. Even, the deep, dark, suspicious part of Vimes’ mind supplied, Captain Carrot more than Angua. Lone wolf, that man. Lone wolf.

And Cheery was a large, hairy butterfly. If that made any sense. A moth! Yes, quiet, not graceful, really, but gentle despite everything.

He sifted over Nobby, because it really didn’t bear thinking about, and landed on Colon. A large, floppy, fat dog. He decided this after a moments contemplation of the doors to the warehouse.

‘Are we going in?’ Credan asked. His hands were tucked behind his back and were twisting each other. The leather gloves made tight shifting sounds.

‘I think so.’

They waited a beat. The dock was silent. Vimes didn’t like it but there was no help for it. With a sure fire movement he opened the doors and behind them was darkness.

 

 

‘Do you know anything about heraldry?’ The commander asked as they sifted through debris.

‘It’s ridiculous?’

‘Bell and house.’

‘What?’ Credan scowled through the shadows.

‘Campana is bell…Domus is house.’

‘Belldom?’

Vimes shook his head. No, no, the puns usually involve both old Morpkorkian words. Credan shrugged, Not my strong point. Word play.

The shadows were deep. The silence was grand. Vimes frowned as he looked around – there was something wrong, he was aware. The building was empty except for empty crates and the occasional fish and chips wrapper. This, in and of itself, was not unusual. Of course they wouldn’t keep their supplies in one place for too long. Especially a place as obvious as this.

But there was something else. Something more. He turned to Credan who was poking through forgotten papers. There was movement in the shadows. He opened his mouth to yell when something hard connected with the back of his head.

He thought, as he sank to the ground, Should have seen _that_ coming.

 

 

When the commander came to there were voices. Hushed and urgent and not in the same room as him. He blinked and licked dry lips. His mouth was cotton and his head was worse.

‘You don’t understand, the patrician’s the best I’ve damn well seen.’

Vimes tried to move and found his hands bound behind his back with the chair digging into his spine. The room was darker than anything and cold and damp and smelled like fish. Somewhere next to him Credan shifted around, cursed under his breath.

‘Greatest what?’

‘Conman. Nothing gets past him. This’ll bust eventually. I’d say we take what we can get then move out. This city won’t tolerate an organisation like this.’ This voice was familiar, Vimes dimly noted. Quite, quite familiar. The other, not so much.

‘No, no, that’s not how we do business.’

‘What? Attracting unwanted attention through murders, drug peddling, extortion, and kidnapping is?’

The unfamiliar voice didn’t respond.

‘Look, I know I’m the new  guy in the crew, but I’ve been in Ankh-Morpork for a while now. I know the ins and outs.’

Still no response.

‘Trust me on this.’

The door opened and there was a man in a golden suite holding two glasses of water. The eyes were wild, the smile was so charming it was probably deadly.

‘Commander, inspector, glad to see you’re awake.’

There was a snarl from Credan, sudden frantic, angry movements. Behind the gold suit was a brown one. The dapper accountant gone hustler and mob man, Grubbins.

‘Finnegan!’ The inspector hissed. Vimes assumed that the man was probably foaming at the mouth. ‘I knew you were the one! Thaine in Quirm, Lipwig in Ankh-Morpork, and now Finnegan.’

Lipwig gave Credan a confused look as he set the water down on a small table just out of reach. He took a seat, hands resting on crossed legs. ‘Thaine,’ he nodded. ‘Oh yes. And Lipwig, too. Lipwig the most out of all of them. But I’m not sure about the Finnegan part.’ A quick look to Vimes and there was a fraction of a smile. ‘I’m sure your colleague here can tell you all my actual sins for you in extensive detail. His Grace has never been fond of the patrician’s habit of salvaging civil servants from the criminal element.’

Behind Lipwig Grubbins moved forward so his face was shadows moving within shadows.

He asked, ‘What shall we do with them? If they’re a potential liability, as you say.’

The banker stared at Vimes for a long moment before standing and pointing to Credan. ‘I want him. This man isn’t from here and not worth much, really. And we’ve a bit of a history to get sorted. The commander, however, is worth a king’s ransom. From his own estate, let alone what some rather powerful people would be willing to pay to get him back.’

‘I’m not sure there’ll be a chance for that. The Boss isn’t happy with him.’

‘Oh?’ He stared at Grubbins for a long moment before giving half a smile. ‘I pity the Boss, then. There are quite a few people out there who’d want the commander back. _And_ they’d be willing to pay.’

‘No amount of money will please the Boss.’

‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’

Despite the dark Vimes felt that the only way to describe Grubbins’ look was as _hungry._ A deep, dark, desperate _hunger._ The commander wondered at this and, as Credan was manhandled out of the room, he wondered at the banker-postman’s easy control of the situation.

Lipwig was at the door when he turned to Vimes and said, without inflection, ‘quite the ride I’ve taken Ankh-Morpork on, isn’t it, your grace? The greatest con of the century is happening right now.’

Vimes replied, with equal calm, ‘Ms Dearheart is worried.’

Lipwig was between shadow and light, he was glittering in gold, he was hiding in the dark, and he was a whisper when he said, I know.

The door closed quietly, so the second hushed ‘I know’ escaped between breaths and teeth and lips and hung heavy and loud in the too still air.

 

 

The Oblong Office was cold for a spring, almost summer, day. Carrot was trying to not shift his feet. He felt that this was one of the first times he had ever been uncertain in front of the patrician. Angua was next to him staring at the wall. Colon was pretending he was invisible and Cheery wore a miserable look. Sitting down, off to the side, was Sumners and she was watching them watch the patrician watching them.

Vetinari, through all, was quite calm. He had only lifted his eyebrow twice since the meeting began.  

Carrot wondered whose heads were to roll.

Probably his and Anguas, he mused. Since it had been a day and they still couldn’t locate either man.

‘We traced them as far as the Pearl Docks, sir,’ Angua was explaining. ‘But after that I couldn’t say with any certainty.’

‘What other measures are you taking?’

‘We have some undercover men going into the Shades to see if they can pick up any information.’

‘Excellent. Captain Carrot? Anything else to add?’

‘No, sir. We are doing all in our power to get the commander and Mr Lipwig back.’

‘I have no doubt that you are. I would also appreciate it if you managed to bring the Inspector Credan back alive and unharmed. It’d be a bit of an international incident if he was to meet an untimely death on my watch. If you take my meaning.’

‘Oh yes, sir. Clear as day, sir.’

‘Good, good. Well,’ he picked up papers and rearranged them. ‘That should be all. Do keep me informed, captains.’

They saluted.

‘Don’t let me detain you.’

When they left Sumners waited a moment before saying, ‘they’ll never find them in time.’

‘Probably not.’ The patrician took out a clean sheet of paper and began what appeared to be a letter. He wrote for a few minutes before asking, ‘yes? You have something to say.’

‘I looked into the insignia.’

The patrician continued to write.

‘It was traced to the Dragon King of Arms.’

The pen never stopped moving.

‘And the one thing this city lacks is space. So you must make do with what you have. The other thing this city lacks is privacy. Transportation of two or three unconscious men is hard. Especially when two of them are well known.’

He took out another sheet of paper and continued to write.

‘So, I reason that they’re in a place the watch already knows about. And, from what I read in the Dragon King of Arm’s file, would you say this is a bit of a revenge on the commander?’

‘I wouldn’t say a thing.’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘Where do you have in mind for possible hiding places?’

‘Somewhere near where they were taken. One of the warehouses or buildings attached to them.’

‘Quite.’ Vetinari looked up from the letter, consulted his diary, then returned to writing. ‘Ms Sumner.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do me a favour and go and drop subtle hints to the Watch.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps not too subtle.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She was by the door when he hummed, ‘do remember this is one you.’

‘ _Yes,_ sir.’ 


	7. Coffee and Crosswords

Vimes counted breathes. He counted them because they made noise in an otherwise noiseless room. He counted them in his head then aloud then sometimes he wasn’t sure if it was aloud or in his head.

He slept.

He did a lot of sleeping.

When he dreamed it was of a moving earth, a breathing stone, and a creature threading its way through the streets of the city. Small, slimy, silky, summoned from desperation. He woke and wondered when the last time it was when he had dreamed of _that_. Part of him said,  _draw it._ The other part said,  _bugger_ that. 

Lipwig appeared at one point and untied him, gave him a blanket and some water. He didn’t say anything. Vimes didn’t say anything. They both wondered what they could possibly have to say to each other anyway.

After more timed passed Vimes decided that the best thing to do was to find a stone and play fetch. He’d toss it, hear it land somewhere in the distance, then search for it. When he found it he’d do it again. And again. And again.

He understood the madness of winter up by the Hub. With the days that are unending night. And the nights that are unending day. 

He memorized the stones of the wall with their damp, moldy texture. 

He wondered how long it had been.

He wondered how his son was. 

He wondered how the city was. How alive it was. How dead it was. 

Darkness, he found, was wonderfully timeless.

 

 

The Watch House in Pseudopolis yard was chaos. Chaos of a milling sort, to be sure, but chaos none the less.

Angua snarled at one of the men, ‘You there! Get back to your beat and if you come in here before five so help me gods I’ll rip you a new one.’

The man asked his beat partner, ‘rip me a knew what?’

His beat partner replied, ‘you probably don’t want to know.’

They meandered on. Around them the city was surging forward and back, as constant as the sea from which it was built.

 

Carrot told Angua, ‘we’ll find him.’

Angua told Carrot, ‘you said we’d be fine when the plague hit and we weren’t.’

Carrot doesn’t know what to say. Angua doesn’t know what to say. Sometimes they wondered how they ever knew what to say to each other.

 

 

When young Sam was brought in he was stout and fearless. He sat in his father’s chair and wore an old helmet and did his homework.

‘Do you need anything?’ Angua asked. She was thinking about who could be spared to get juice boxes and sandwich meat. She was thinking about Cheery’s birthday and maybe she should get her a prank present. Something with lots of gold and beer. She was thinking about yet not thinking about the Commander. She was thinking about the boy in front of her who was being so quiet and so brave. She was thinking that he had the bravery of his mother. A quiet, steady bravery. A gentle, firm bravery.

The boy said, ‘no, thank you, Captain.’ Maybe he looked a little sheepish as he said it so she waited. She read his homework upside down (something about the culture of Genua and its impacts on the lowlands around it) and waited. Finally he murmured, ‘well, maybe I’m hungry.’

‘Cheery’s out for curry.’

He brightened up. His face fell. It was seconds apart. Angua waited.

‘I always eat curry with my dad.’

‘And you will again.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course.’ She wanted to add that she had seen the Commander in worse situations than this but didn’t. The boy was still. So very still. She knew that stillness. It was the stillness before the damn breaks. She doesn’t know if he wants her there or not.

‘Captain Angua?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I come on the beat with you?’

‘Of course. I’ll come get you when I leave.’

He shifts in the seat which is too large for him. ‘Can I wear dad’s helmet?’

‘Of course. You’re an officer of the Watch and an officer always has his uniform on. Even when he's not wearing it.’

As she left young Sam reached up and rubbed the shinny spot on the helmet. He was too old to believe in good luck but figured it wouldn’t hurt either way.

 

 

Vimes asked, when Lipwig returned with some food and water, ‘did you kill him?’

Lipwig looked at him a long moment. ‘Do you think I did?’

‘No.’

Lipwig sort-of-smiled. He couldn’t do it the same as Vetinari and Vimes wasn’t sure what made him think of that.

He walked to the door, paused, then, ‘would you like a candle?’

‘For what purpose?’

‘I could probably find something for you to read.’

A stubborn part of the Commander wants to spit on the offer but the more logical side wins over and he nods. Curt and short and with a glare. Lipwig’s sort-of-smile turned into a smirk.

‘I always knew you were a reasonable man, Commander.’

 

 

The blanket proved useful as the room he was in began to sink into the chilliness of damp night. Liwig brought in week old newspapers and a pencil.

‘I don’t know if you like the puzzle section.’ He explained.

Vimes shrugged, ‘I could take it or leave it.’

‘Well. Have the pencil anyway.’

After the door closed Vimes looked at the #2 and recognised it as one of Drumknott’s. Old habits, he knew only too well, die hard.

He thought about the palace and the Oblong Office. Then didn't think about it. He read about oddly shaped vegetables. He wondered how De Worde was doing. He   
  
wondered about a lot of thing. 

 

 

Susie Sumners let herself into the Watch House and loitered by the front desk. Cheery watched with an expressionless face as she pushed papers about.

‘How’s your day going?’ Sumners began. She played with a pencil for something to do. Cheery watched for a minute before taking it back with a pointed look.

‘Fine.’

‘Any news?’

‘News?’

Sumners smiled. Cheery smiled back. The dwarf filed a few of the papers away and returned to the desk and removed yet another pencil from Sumner’s fidgeting fingers.

‘Can I help you Ms Sumners?’

‘Maybe.’ She peered at Cheery. ‘Maybe you can. Tell me, how is the case about the drug smuggling going?’

‘It’s going.’

‘Come now, Inspector, you can give me more than that.’

‘I’m not sure I can.’

Sumners nodded and Cheery watched as the other woman mentally switched gears.

‘When’s your break?’

The dwarf frowned, ‘in half an hour.’

‘Excellent. You look hungry-‘

‘I just ate.’

‘And thirsty. We’ll go for coffee. We’ll make it a date shall we? Half an hour. I’ll pick you up.’ With a jaunty smirk and a half mocking bow she left.

 

 

For the five down Vimes wrote Fuck This.

For the five down Vetinari wrote Circular.

For the seven across Vimes wrote Bugger.

For the seven across Vetinari wrote Shifts.

For the ten across Vimes wrote Fucking Piece of Shit.

For the ten across Vetinari wrote Cylindrical.

When Vimes finished squishing curse words into every available (and unavailable) space he turned to the front page and doodled moustaches on the pictures. Downey looked like a hackneyed villain. Rust looked ridiculous. Angua looked dashing.

When Vetinari finished the crossword he set is aside and picked up correspondences from the Sto Plains and began to work. When Drumknott suggested maybe his lordship should take a break Vetinari merely replied, And do what?

 

 

Cheery ordered a plain coffee while Sumners ordered a skim latte with half a pump of vanilla and a dash of cinnamon on top.

As they took a seat the inspector said, ‘you’re one of those people aren’t you?’

Sumners continued her usual smile, ‘what kind of person is that?’

‘The kind that asks for _half_ a pump of vanilla.’ Cheery contemplated her coffee for a moment. ‘I don’t much like those kind of people.’

‘You like the kind who order an espresso and drink it straight, don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Hm. So, shall I be blunt?’

‘Please.’

The dark clerk sipped her drink before nodding. Oh yes, she said. This is the time to be blunt. ‘The drug smuggling, where is it based?’

‘Am I going to get in trouble for this?’

‘No. I promise.’

Cheery didn’t look convinced. Sumners reasoned that she could hardly blame the inspector.

‘Dockside,’ the dwarf said slowly. ‘In some of the more abandoned warehouses along the river. The latest batch was found in number seven.’

‘Hm, hm. And the Dragon king of Arms, what happened to him?’

Cheery blinked and shook her head. I don’t know, she stared hard at Sumners. ‘Does he have something to do with all of this?’

‘Maybe, maybe.’

‘Hate vampires.’

‘They’re not all bad.’

They drank in silence. Cheery watched Sumners who was watching her watch her. This convoluted thought process was followed for a moment before being abandoned in favour of focusing on what was in front of her. Cheery always prided herself on being able to see the obvious when everyone was too busy looking for the complicated.

She slowly pushed her coffee away and watched as Sumners grew a cat-like grin.

Cheery said, softly, gently, afraid the truth might not be true, ‘they’re in the warehouse aren’t they?’

‘Probably.’

‘And the Dragon King of Arms – right! The commander mentioned heraldry, of _course_ it’s him.’ She paused, tapped the table. ‘Revenge, right? On the Commander for the whole “let’s poison the patrician with candles” stint?’

‘Probably.’

‘And the screetch? He’s connected to that as well. A mob. Or, you know, Mob.’

‘I believe the Genuan term is Mafia – family. Bell is badly punned into Bellum. And house is a family so –‘

‘Bellum familia? Bell mafia? War family? Beautiful family? Beautiful war family?’

‘I have to admit that his punning abilities have diminished since the poisoning event.’

‘I'd say they’re non existent.’

The clerk laughed and nodded, Yes, yes. More accurate to say that, certainly. They finished their drinks and meandered onto the streets. Cheery could feel her palms itching – the itching of something needing to be done. The itching of _now, now, now._ Now or else you might loose it. What ever _it_ is. She turned and nodded to Sumners.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But there’s a lot I need to do.’

‘Kick ass? Or, as the Watch says, prod buttock?’

‘Quite.’

Sumner said, I’ll walk you back to the Watch House. We can exchange theories on the case.

Cheery replied, All right. But only if you keep it all quiet.

They were turning a corner when a hand grabbed Cheery’s arm from an alley. She turned and looked up into the frantic, sleep deprived, and possibly mad eyes of Inspector Credan.

‘Inspector.’ She said automatically.

‘Inspector,’ he replied.

‘Well then,’ Sumner said, just for something to say. 


	8. Master of the Double Edged Axe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History of a word. Some sort of reconciliation. Some sort of understanding.

There is, Sumners explained, to be no International Incident. Due to the good Inspector showing up from the dead but, thankfully, distinctly Not Undead.

‘This _is_ good news,’ The Patrician replied evenly.

Sumners waited.

‘And the Commander?’

‘I’ve dropped non-subtle hints to Inspector Cheery.’

‘Over coffee, I hear.’

She nodded.

‘How is the shop? It’s a new one, I’m given to understand.’

‘Over priced and yuppie-ish. Good coffee, though.’

The patrician nodded and shuffled papers. Sumners marvelled at it. But then, she mused, there was a reason she was a clerk and he was patrician and it had to do with the cold-blooded reptilian part of the job.

Vetinari hummed, ‘I’ll have to give it a try, sometime.’

‘I’d recommend it.’

‘Indeed.’

When he dismissed her all she could think was, What the _hell_ was that conversation about?

 

 

Once Credan had been washed and fed and caffeinated Cheery and Angua sat him down for The Story. And out the story did come, often with little to know inflection. They were looking for Clues (he noted the Commanders sneer of the word) by the dock, near warehouse seven, when they were ambushed. He was hit on the fact of the head. Hard. Like his brother used to hit him. Then there was the room and Lipwig in his golden suit. And that other drab looking man. Oh, then Lipwig took him out back but instead of killing him let him go.

‘Why? If he’s actually pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes, why let you go?’

‘I don’t know.’ Credan didn’t seem convinced of this point. He drank some of his coffee and pushed around a pencil for a moment. ‘The commander is still alive. Or was when I left.’

‘The Palace thinks the Dragon King of Arms is involved,’ Cheery volunteered. Credan looked blank. Angua sneered.

‘That old bag?’

‘Oh yes, or so that clerk Sumners says.’

Angua nodded after a moment, Well then. Well then that’s it. Revenge on the commander.

‘Still doesn’t answer why Lipwig let me go.’

Angua gave the inspector a look. Cheery made a face. Both appeared to say, If you don’t know then we’re not going to enlighten you.

 

 

It was dark. Dark and dark and here was Vimes who remembered a story he had heard. Not a Once Upon A Time sort of thing, though. He reasoned that the Patrician didn’t really do Once Upon A Time sort of things.

Vetinari had been half asleep and murmuring through sheets. It was last Hogswatch and there had been snow.

He had said, I remember when Madam tried to make me learn the piano. I hated it. Never have been very musical, though I can read it well enough.

Vimes had been smoking through it.

‘There was one time when I had to perform something little for her and her ladies. I must have been ten. Hm.’ He had drifted off then and Vimes hadn’t woke him. When morning came the Commander had asked about the piano piece.

‘Oh, that. It was a plucking little thing, I think is the best way to describe it. I believe I did horribly when I performed and I remember being absolutely mortified.’

‘What reminded you of that?’

Vetinari had given him a piercing look then said, ‘You know, I’m not sure’.

 

Vimes yawned and began naming all of the members of Watch and sorting them into different categories because he figured it was better than doing nothing. When he got to Constable Tillyshrimp of Peach Pie St he finally let himself wonder what had brought that memory back and he said to the still, damp air, ‘You know, I’m not sure’.

 

 

Young Sam took off when Credan was brought it. He shot through the door wearing his father’s helmet saying he would be back in a bit he just needed some time. Cheery had reached to stop him. Angua had reached to stop her from stopping him.

The boy lingered on the Brass Bridge and dropped pebbles into the sludge of the Ankh. They left soft depressions in the green top layer. He wished they would sink deeper. He wished they would disappear. He wished that the Ankh was an actual river. Like those he had seen when he had visited his aunt up north. He wished that the sun wasn’t shining. He didn’t like the shining sun.

 

 

Vetinari said, ‘I’m fairly sure you should be at school.’ He didn’t look up from the paper in front of him. Young Sam stood by the door to the Oblong Office.

He shrugged, ‘I’m skipping.’

‘Again?’

The boy shrugged again and took a step in.

‘Captain Angua said I could stay at ‘dopolis yard.’

Vetinari picked up another paper and continued to work.

‘She also said I could eat all the curry I want.’

Vetinari continued on.

Young Sam walked in more, ‘You’re not very good at talking.’ He scrutinized the patrician’s face. There was no reaction. ‘In fact, you’re terrible at it. Dad always says two people are needed for a conversation.’

In a gentle movement Vetinari set the work aside. He carefully put the pen back in its stand, capped the inkwell, folded his hands, and looked up.

‘What, exactly, is it that you want?’

Young Sam sat down in the chair and took off the helmet.

‘Well, I want my dad back for starters. I also want to ride a dragon, but that one can keep.’

‘I’m hardly the Hogfather.’

‘No, you’re the patrician. Which is better.’

 

 

Cheery drifted through the Watch House. She paused by the coffee and made a new pot. The old one had been rather cold. In the background she could hear the Captains distinctly Not Arguing about what to do.

She listened for half a minute, watched the coffee drip into the pot, thought that maybe she should return Sumners’ favour. There was a new bar that had opened, she knew. A quiet place with no songs about gold.

‘Have you seen Sam?’ Angua asked, joining in with the coffee watching.

‘No. Should we look for him as well?’

‘If he’s not back by supper.’

‘So…What’s the plan?’

They both wiped out their coffee mugs. Cheery added sugar and cream to the bottom of hers. She estimated the remaining time to be three minutes.

Angua looked at her glumly. ‘We’re staging a rescue, which I am pleased about. But I think we should have some palace back up. I don’t particularly care for the patrician’s spies but I don’t think it’d be bad to have them in case things get sticky.’

‘We’ve been in tighter spots before.’

‘Ye-es. But ah,’ Angua glanced over her shoulder. ‘What if there is more than one vampire involved. Sally, fine. The others though, still make my skin crawl.’

‘And Captain Carrot thinks we should be fine on our own?’

‘Yes, which, I mean,’ she sighed. ‘As you said. We’ve been in tighter spots.’

They poured the coffee. There were loose drips which sizzled on the hot plate.

Cheery said, as they stirred their drinks, ‘I could ask Sumners. Maybe something on the quiet.’

‘Oh yes. Maybe.’ A long sip. ‘She’s all right, I suppose.’

‘Yeah. For a clerk.’

A nod. Yes, yes, for a clerk.

 

 

Vimes felt it more than he could see it. There was that itching feeling, that skin crawling, oh gods there are probably cockroaches on me, feeling. And the darkness was shifting. Wings unfurling. Oh yes, he thought. Oh yes I know _this._ And it has been _years_ since I last thought on it.

Vetinari _had_ said something about this particular creature going the way of the loony bin. But then, Vetinari had said a lot of things.

Vetinari does that, Vimes thought. He says a lot of things. And for the life of me I can’t decipher half of them.

It occured to him that this wasn’t the best time to be mulling on this.

‘Commander,’ the voice hissed. ‘ha…ahaha…We meet again.’

‘I thought you went mental.’

‘Is that what that man said?’

‘That man?’

‘Poor excuse for a nobleman, him.’ The Dragon King of Arms was slipping about the room. He was oil on water. He was clouds on a moonless night. A darker presence against already present darkness. ‘But I suppose he has other merits aha. Haha.’

‘I bet you just don’t like his family crest. No pun in something all black.’

This is absurd. Vimes banished the thought. This is surreal, his mind supplied instead. Fuck you, he said back to his mind. 

‘Do you know what happens to families when they are stripped of their nobility?’

Vimes remained silent.

‘Stoneface certainly found out, didn’t he? And as for his _lordship’s_ aha, family. At the time they lost theirs the common course was to burn their lands, salt them so no growth would return to the earth, all goods return to the throne, and their family shield painted black.’

Vimes continued his intense study of the space just in front of him.

‘They got their titles back, eventually. But never came to see me, did you know? Never came to resurrect their family crest.’ The vampire mused on this. Vimes dimly thought, _gods_ is heold. ‘Had a wave on it and two ships battling. Above it a lock which was supposed to symbolise eternal loyalty.’

‘Competition on the sea?’

‘Oh yes.’

Vimes knew the creature was smiling. A moment passed before the commander began laughing. Laughing and laughing and the vampire just stared and the man managed to get out: He never told you what his name meant, did he?

 

 

Sumners was by the Mended Drum when Cheery approached.

‘I was expecting you,’ the clerk said.

The dwarf yanked her around back, towards the river and its questionable steaming surface.

‘How many people are involved in this gang?’

Sumners began counting off her fingers, ‘King of Arms, his lordship is keen on getting him alive as a note. Or, as alive as possible if you follow. Grubbins, who is that Finnigan chap all of you have been so keen on. Ten men at the main quarters, fifteen men here and there about the city.’

‘Only one vampire?’

An appraising look. Oh yes, only one.

‘Good,’ Cheery was stubborn in her stare. ‘Then we won’t need back up.’ A pause. ‘But I wouldn’t say no, you know.’

Sumners laughed. It sounded like spring to Cheery.

 

 

When the Dragon had left Lipwig sauntered in. ‘Well?’ the banker asked.

‘Well.’

‘He said you went mad.’

‘Just a bit of a pun.’ Vimes was grinning. ‘A punny thought.’

‘I’m not him.’

They had a sober moment of staring at each other. No, the commander finally owned. You’re not. You’re _sane._ Which is worse.

‘There are watch members hiding in an alleyway opposite the warehouse.’

The sober quietness continued.

‘There are probably clerks about. You know how the patrician is.’

Vimes pursed his lips.

‘Look, here.’ Something heavy and metallic was slid across the floor. ‘Give my love to Adora and Rosie.’

When he was gone it took Vimes a full five minutes before he managed to snarl, _bloody suicidal bastard._

 

 

Credan and Captain Carrot were stationed at the back of the warehouse in plain clothes. The Captain had looked uncomfortable and Credan had pointed out that sometimes deception was necessary.

‘I wouldn’t think to hear that from you,’ Carrot had replied.

‘Oh?’

‘It feels like lying to the people.’

‘And if they have nothing to hide they ought not to be worried.’

Now they were lingering behind newspapers and leaning casually against an alley wall. Carrot noted that there was very little movement in and out. A quiet day. Laying low, which was only natural, he figured. He decided he was also going to ignore the subtle movement on the roofs above them that could only be the clerks that theoretically didn’t exist.

 

 

It happened fast.

Because that is how these things happen.

Lipwig was dragging Grubbins out the front door with a mini crossbow at the man’s head. He shouted back into the building, ‘I’ve nothing against the rest of you. But I’ll only join you if this one goes.’

Angua and Cheery were tense. Waiting. A silky voice crept out from the darkened building, ‘come now, Mr Lipwig. I am sure we can reach an agreement, aha…haha.’

The werewolf wanted to snarl. She bit it back. She could see Sally in the distance with a look of distaste. Sally had once said, I don’t mind eccentrics but just be classy about it.

Glancing over to the alley with Carrot and Credan she saw them duck forward and into the building through a back window.

‘We’re in,’ she said. Cheery nodded. They began edging around back to the same entrance used by the others. Up on the roofs there were clerks. Or at least that’s where they had last been seen. Angua didn’t like them. But she also didn’t mind them. Especially when they were on her side.

 

 

It was a yell Vimes heard first. Followed by some thumps against the floor that was his ceiling. He lit the candle but it spluttered out quickly. In his pocket was a set of keys. They were heavy and cold against his leg.

There were muffled yells, something about Lipwig then something about Adora then something about Grubbins. Vimes stopped trying to listen and found his way to the door. He felt around the locks and frowned, No, he reminded himself, this is not the palace. There will not be locks on the inside of the door.

He tried pulling. It gave a little. He pulled again. A little more. He gave it yank and fell backwards as the door opened.

Lipwig. He scowled. He didn’t like being indebted to the man.

 

 

Angua was holding down one of the more excitable hired men. The others had enough brains between them to know when they had been beat and were sitting in a scowling circle of general misery. Carrot was giving them a lecture.

‘The commander.’ She said without preamble as Sumners approached looking mild and perhaps a little bored.

‘Still not located. We checked the cellars, nothing.’

‘The Dragon King of Arms?’

‘Nothing. We’ll find him, though.’

Oh, Angua thought. Have no worry there.

 

 

It took half an hour before Vimes had to admit that he was lost. He had been in tunnels before, oh yes. Tunnels and tunnels and caves with drawings on the walls leading to madness. This wasn’t nearly so diabolical. Just annoying.

‘How are you finding your stay, commander?’

‘Refreshing.’

He could have sworn something brushed against the back of his neck. _Unfurling wings._

‘Maze making is a complex act. Creating it in a limited space that is rather un-square like makes for a special challenge. Have you ever, when bored, drawn mazes? Ensuring that there is indeed an ending and a beginning is hard enough. But when you include dead ends, aha haha. Ha.’

Vimes felt the rough walls. They were damp, mouldering. Mold. So there must be some light down here because that was distinctly a leaf he felt. Which means something. He wasn’t sure what, though.

 

Dampness, he figured. So I am still close to the river which means … that I am still close to the river. He was regretting that he had never learned how to track. That he had never learned the underground world because it was now rather evident to him that it was an inevitable part of the future of the city.

 

The irritatingly silky voice of the vampire was following him as he turned around and took a different direction. The ground underfoot was flat with soft, wide stones as the floor and old brick for the walls. Which means, Vimes noted, that the floor is newer and so they were using this as a means to transport goods. This was how they got things through the city without being seen. Tunnels that are not dwarven, not part of the Undertaking, not part of anything connecting to anything.

‘According to the old religion of the heathen kings of Ankh-Morpork, before your Captain Carrot’s line, mazes were a symbolic representation of the twistedness of man’s inner mind.

I think one could argue that there writings mean something more than the mind. I think they also include soul in their assessment of the twisting ways of the maze.

Then there are labyriths. Can you tell me, commander, what the difference is between a maze and a labyrinth?’

He didn’t respond.

The vampire tutted. He wanted to smack the creature. Then set it on fire.

Another voice answered, ‘I think you’ll find that the key difference is a maze has an exit whereas a labyrinth only has an entrance. A maze is an A to B exercise whilst the labyrinth is circular and leading the traveller to one destination in particular.’

The commander could have sworn he forgot how to breath.

‘Commander,’ the voice continued. ‘Continue to walk forward.’

The thoughts in his head were something like, What the holy hells? _Blind Io_ _what_? Fucking bastard _of course._

He walked forward. His fingers were raw from the stones.

The creature’s voice had a positive smile. ‘Two flies in a trap, then. What fun. I have another question, perhaps the patrician will be able to answer it as well. Despite your low origins _at least_ you have a classical education. The origins of the word labyrinth – it has several meanings. Do you know them?’

Vimes shifted forward slowly when he bumped up against something. Something distinctly human.

‘Glad to have found you, commander.’

‘Sir.’

‘Which kind of sir was that?’

‘All of them, sir.’

If it wasn’t dark he would have been able to see the patrician’s face. If it wasn’t dark he would have been able to see something that was like a smile.

‘Your lordship?’ The Dragon King asked.

‘It could be referring to an island off the coast of the Agatean Empire. Labyros. However, I believe most classical scholars prefer the origin of the word being _labrys._ Or, in our language, Double Edged Sword.’

 

 

Angua was pretty sure she was going to kill someone. Sumners looked murderous as well.

‘What do you _mean_ the patrician is gone as well?’ The clerk hissed. The palace messenger looked ready to cry. ‘He was in his office when I left.’

‘He-he-said that he knew where – uh – where the vamp-‘ a nervous glance to Sally. ‘the-the-vampire would uh have uh put the commander.’

‘Are you sure? ‘

‘Yesmaam.’

‘I am not a ma’am. It’s “yes Sumners”. I’ve been over this with you before.’

‘yesmaam.’

Angua was convinced he was a minute from tears. The clerk sighed. Rested her hands on her hips and leaned back.

‘Well,’ she declared after studying the space between them all. ‘I suppose it’s out of our hands now. Though, one question.’

‘What?’

‘Where’s Lipwig and that foreign Inspector?’

 

 

There is a long stretch along the Ankh in the Shades where few people go in the middle of the day. It was more of a late-night haunt than a mid-day haunt. Credan found himself unceremoniously pushed down and held at sword point.

Grubbins was sneering and the Inspector wondered how the blasted man had gotten free during the ensuing scuffle.

‘We had such a lovely racket going here.’ The man said. He shifted the sword so it was closer to Credan’s rather too exposed neck. ‘And now it’s all gone up in flames.’ The sword was raised up when Grubbins went very still. His face was one of relaxed shock, if such a thing was possible. A little sound of, Oh, escaped before knees buckled, sword fell, and the conman hit the pavement face first.

‘Well,’ Lipwig said with a frown. ‘He never did have a handsome face.’

‘Couldn’t say I noticed.’

‘Well. Yes. I suppose not.’

Lipwig held out his hand and Credan stared at it. Stared at it long and hard. There was water on the ground and it was seeping through his trousers and he wondered if this city was ever dry. Quirm was always dry.

‘I don’t need your hand.’ He bit out. The golden suited man looked disappointed. His hand remained out. He explained, This hand has done crime, Inspector. This hand has cheated and robbed and blindsided. This hand has taken what does not belong to it. But this hand has never killed. _This hand is_ _not bloody._

'But it is still criminal. The law is the law.' Credan sighed. Closed his eyes. Opened them. The day was young and old. 'You are not - not an unmoral man, Lipwig.'

An intake of breath.

'But you are certainly a criminal one.'

The break expelled.

Credan smiled. Sort of. Something in him was turning. Twisting, wrangling around in head and stomach. When dirty Ankh water is currently nesting itself into one’s skin through one’s trousers there is only one course of action. Credan took Lipwig’s hand.

‘I’ll come back and arrest you, know that.’

Lipwig grinned.

‘I look forward to it, Inspector.’

 

Vetinari was pulling Vimes along. He was muttering under his breath, pausing occasionally, counting softly. He had explained in a whisper that there was an algorithm to mazes. One just had to find it.

‘Easier said than done.’

They twisted their way along. Vimes thought about axes. Double edges ones. Double edged swords.

‘It was a sword that killed the last king of Ankh-Morpork.’ He said to the moving darkness ahead of him that was the Patrician.

‘Indeed.’

‘Not an axe.’

‘There’s an axe in a table in the palace.’

They remained silent. Vimes squeezed Vetinari’s hand, pulled him to a stop. In the darkness he found the other man’s face, his fingers were tentative as he brushed skin, beard, hair. The patrician was immobile.

‘You know I would never.’ Vimes demanded. It was a snarl.

‘Of course.’

Of course. _Of course._ That was his bloody answer. Vimes hated him sometimes.

The commander continued because it was dark and he couldn’t see Vetinari and they were stuck in some sort of maze with a crazed vampire after them. He knew he always had a gift for Moments. ‘I feel like I don’t understand you more than half the time.’

Lips twitched under his thumb.

‘That makes two of us, then.’ Vetinari turned his head sharply. ‘Ah, it’s this way.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Air is fresher this way. All else fails, follow your nose.’


	9. This Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All stories end where they begin and begin where they end.

The Dragon King of Arms said to them, ‘I will come back for you and see what bones remain. Perhaps you will be nothing but dust when I remember to look for you. Perhaps you won’t even be that.’

He laughed as he left.

Vimes growled, I really hate that man.

 

‘Let me tell you a story,’ Vetinari said. They were walking up. Vimes was counting the ways he was going to kill the Dragon King of Arms.

‘Only if it has a happy ending.’

A sigh. The patrician began. Once, a long time ago, there was a man lost on the seas. The seas that once covered Ankh-Morpork, actually. Except for one or two parts which rose above, but they don’t exist anymore.

Some say that the gods were punishing him for his hubris. That he had declared himself their equal and had said there was not reason man was not like the gods and no reason the gods were not like man. Others say he was wandering out of choice. A wilful exile. Still others say he was driven from his land by a great evil that none care to mention. I discard the third option and out of the first two, I’m not sure which one is worse.

Eventually, he came to landfall on an island no one had made record of. There was a king, of course, who had dark hair and a piercing gaze. A witch’s gaze, story teller’s call it. The king welcomes the lost man to his court and tells him that he may make a home upon these shores – free from the ravages of the gods, of memories, of historical narrative, provided he do one thing.

‘And what’s that?’

‘Entre the island’s labyrinth, survive the darkness, the traps, the silence, survive himself, most of all, until he reaches the centre. Once there he must slay the creature which the labyrinth harbours – sometimes a minotaur, sometimes a dragon, sometimes a friend, sometimes a brother. Once he has slayed the beast and survived the journey back out and all the darkness and silence and memories and grievances our own minds lay at our feet, he may call the island home.’

Vimes’ palm was damp, cold against Vetinari’s. His calves were cramping. He was tired and hungry and thinking of home, of bed, of food –

He heard his voice ask, ‘what if the sailor just arrests the beast instead of killing it?’ Vetinari laughed, pulled Vimes towards him and whispered in his ear, That is certainly one possibility, though I do not know the ending to that version.

 

 

They walked on.

Vimes, ‘My mother used to tell us stories. Of course, if she was doing that she was usually covering up for something.’ 

 

They walked on.

Vetinari, ‘When you were a boy, did you know you were going to be a cop?’

‘Sure. Bit of a family tradition. My dad was one.’

‘What happened?’

‘He died.’ 

 

They walked on.

Vimes, ‘And you? Did you know?’

‘I had no real plans, if that’s what you’re asking. I think Madam always had some vague Plan for me, but I hardly know what it was.’

‘When did you know you were going to be patrician?’

‘When Snapcase died.’

 

They walked on.

‘Wuffles? What sort of name is that?’

‘A perfectly good one, your grace.’

A pause.

‘We never talk this much.’

‘No.’

‘I suppose –‘

‘Vimes, I believe – ‘

‘The darkness accounts for it.’

‘We’ve found the way out. Our proverbial light.’

A door was opened. It was blinding.

 

Streets over Angua looked to Carrot, ‘I know where the Commander is’. They ran.

 

Ankh-Morpork is old. This has been writ before – in books and histories and in the bones of her people. The city has been built atop the city. There are bones crushed beneath basements, living rooms, respectable shop fronts.

When you are underground there is a pressure. The air is thicker, denser. You gasp. You gulp, you breath in deep and wish you could keep sucking it in and in and in. It clings to your skin – the ghosts of those old bones. The footsteps of forefathers. They imprint on your skin and no matter how much you wash, the cobwebs of their memories remain.

Did my great-great-great-grandmother once walk here? Where did my ancestors play as children? Where did they work? Where did they drink? Where did they die? Where did they scream in childbirth? This here is a basement to a brewer – was it someone’s old bedroom? Did new lovers discover each other, once, years ago? Are their memories witnessed by silent walls, now dark, forever dark?

Underground, in the darkness, in the silence (save your constant-constant-constant breaths), it is everywhere and nowhere.

You are old, when you are underground. You are the city when you are pressed between past and present with future barrelling down. You are the city and you were in love and you were taken along by her. She was, is, forever will be your everything when you are beneath her. When you are in her. And she, this city, is blinding.

 

The light to the world above was white. Was aching. They staggered against each other and then one said to the other, I’m willing to bet he went where it all began. Vampires are creatures of habit, after all. They must have all ends connect. All stories come full circle.

 

The commander kissed the patrician, growled against his lips, ‘I hate following narratives.’ And he left. And he ran. His hand held lingering warmth and in his mind was a sailor slaying a dragon. In his memory was a king arresting one. In his head was a sword and an axe, both keen bladed, double edged. He said aloud, Too many dragons, too many kings, too many arms.

 

Two captains found the patrician who laughed, sort of, that strange one no one trusts, when he saw them.

‘Captains,’ he said merrily. ‘How perfect. He’s gone after the culprit, if that’s what you’re about to ask.’

‘Should we follow?’ Carrot asked.

Vetinari looked at him for a steady moment. Smiled. Sort of. Said, ‘oh no, let the commander do what he does. It’s healthy for him.’  

 

 

All stories start at the end and end at the beginning. You may not see it, but that is always the case. And usually, most often, it is in the little ways that this is true.

 

 

This is where the Dragon went. There was a thin drizzle dripping out of the sky and Vimes was in a gutter outside the College of Arms. Underneath him was the ancient herald sputtering, spitting, twisting, wings not-quite unfurling. In this light he wasn’t scary. In this light he looked sort of sad.

The commander thought of the dead girls, the dead boys – the men and women and Adora’s anguished silence. He thought of Lipwig out-conning the conman. The greatest con. But mostly he thought of the dead.

‘Dragon King of Arms, whatever your bloody proper name is, I hereby arrest you for the murder of a lot of bloody people, the trafficking of illegal substances within city limits, attempted murder of the Commander of the Watch, the Patrician of Ankh Morpork, and the Detective Credan of Quirm, and being a bloody nuisance.’

The Dragon spit, it missed.

Vimes hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the gates to the College.

‘You’re done,’ he hissed into the vampire’s ear. ‘You’re so done you don’t even know it. I am _finished_ with dragons heralding kings in this city. _Finished._ ’

The Dragon snarled that he had done no wrong, besides where was the proof? Where was the proof, _Mister_ Vimes?’

‘It’s “your grace” and I’ve got enough proof to see you hang for all eternity.’ He wrenched the other man off the gate and pushed him forward, watched him stagger. The cuffs were holy. Vimes had always though Visit mad, back in the day, but now he wished he could tell the copper what a stunning idea it had been. How it had all worked out.

Above them the skies opened a little more. The drizzle turned to a steady rain. A damp darkness. Vimes thought it appropriate.

 

 

Later.

Oh yes, it was later. Later, after Credan had been seen off with a something like sadness.

‘We need more men like him.’ Vimes said to Angua. ‘Only, maybe with less of a stick up the arse.’

 

And later still. Angua and Carrot and Cheery were all out to dinner at a take-away sushi joint a stones throw from Pseudopolis yard. Cheery was given pats on the back and told gruffly that she had done well.

 

And, oh yes, it was still later.

Past Vimes’ not-so-veiled questions during his morning Onlong Office meeting, about the fate of the King of Arms and Vetinari’s non-answers.

Beyond young Sam’s desert and bed-time story, that night.

Beyond the death of the fire. The cooling, condensing of the night.

 

It was later.

Later.

They were in the patrician’s room and Vetinari was at his desk, bent over papers, as usual. Vimes was by the door, hanging up his coat, as usual.

‘How are you?’ The patrician inquired.

Vimes replied, ‘ask a better question.’

Somewhere, in the city, someone was at a piano playing a song. A soft, plucking one that was gentle and spoke of moonlit nights. It was a serenade to the dark.

Vetinari considered this. He put his pen down, turned to look at the commander.

‘Are you, I won’t say happy, rather, are you content? Right now?’

Vimes’ coat was still on that hook and there was just candlelight and the bedroom was familiar and foreign – the way Sybil’s had always been to him, even after it was no longer hers but theirs.

‘Yes,’ he sighed. He glared. He stomped about. ‘Though I don’t think I ought to be.’

‘Ah. Good.’

‘Good?’

‘I think, for once, we are speaking the same language.’

A language Vimes considered odd tasting and duplicitous. He stole a kiss instead.

‘You’re impossible, commander.’

‘Thank you,’ he was pulling Vetinari up. ‘Though you’re hardly one to speak, yourself.’

 

 

The night continued to unfold.


End file.
